


A Poison Tree

by expected_aberrance



Series: Facets [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Conspiracy, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Littlefinger aggressively conducting the creep train, Modern Westeros, Murder, Obsession, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Semi-Public Sex, Trying for plot but smut keeps getting in the way, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 22:24:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 109,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8075185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: Sansa has made a deal with the devil to avenge herself and her family without knowing for certain what he wants in return. 
Modern AU, sequel to "Scars":
https://archiveofourown.org/works/7853455
Facets universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  A Poison Tree
> 
> Modern AU WIP. Direct sequel to “Scars,” part of Facets universe.
> 
> _A Poison Tree_  
>  BY WILLIAM BLAKE
> 
> _I was angry with my friend;_  
>  _I told my wrath, my wrath did end._  
>  _I was angry with my foe:_  
>  _I told it not, my wrath did grow._
> 
>  
> 
> _And I waterd it in fears,_  
>  _Night & morning with my tears:_  
>  _And I sunned it with smiles,_  
>  _And with soft deceitful wiles._
> 
>  
> 
> _And it grew both day and night._  
>  _Till it bore an apple bright._  
>  _And my foe beheld it shine,_  
>  _And he knew that it was mine._
> 
>  
> 
> _And into my garden stole,_  
>  _When the night had veild the pole;_  
>  _In the morning glad I see;_  
>  _My foe outstretched beneath the tree._

When Sansa finally awoke sometime around eight the next morning, it was to the familiar buzz of her phone signaling the arrival of a text. She lifted her head from where it had been resting on the chest of the man lying beneath her. His arms were still tight around her, but the sharp features of his face were relaxed in sleep, the lines around his eyes and mouth lessened. His short hair was soft and wavy when released from the neat styling he favored, and she wondered how curly it would get if he let it grow out. She was pondering how to escape his secure grip when the phone buzzed again, waking him as well this time. 

“Good morning.” Petyr’s eyes were dark as he beheld her. 

And she’d been worried this would be awkward. She swallowed. “Good morning.” The phone hummed a third time, and he let her shuffle out of his embrace. She reached across the bed, rifling through her discarded clothes before finding the phone. A few swipes later revealed several texts of escalating concern from Jeyne. 

“It’s my flat mate. She’s wondering where I am. I’ve got to go.” She thought he might protest again, but he only smiled.

“Go get cleaned up. I’ll make breakfast. We have much to discuss.” He rose from the bed with an unabashed stretch of his nude form. He chuckled when he noticed her watching him. She tried not to blush under his returning stare as she made her way into his well-appointed bathroom. 

When she’d gotten out of the bath, her clothes were gone, replaced by a simple outfit of jeans and a shirt folded neatly on the made bed. She didn’t know if he regularly provided morning-after attire for guests or if she was a special case. Any gratitude she might have felt at being spared a walk of shame in her rumpled dress was cancelled out by the inherent presumption and the fact that he had guessed her size exactly without asking. The less time spent dwelling on the very high probability he had bought her underwear in preparation for their encounter the better; she dressed as quickly as she’d showered.

She followed the sounds and smells of food frying down the hall and stepped into a large, multi-level open-plan room, walled on three sides in glass that offered a stunning view of the city. He hadn’t given her much opportunity to look around last night as they’d stumbled from the elevator to his bedroom, stopping a few times only for him press her into the nearest wall. Fittingly, he’d built the most visible symbol of his empire on the border between the financial and political centers of the city and its most disreputable borough. Looking right, she could see the glass towers surrounding the sturdy stone of the Great Sept. Straight ahead, the ancient, forbidding structure of the Red Keep dominated the view of the bay, looming over the modern trappings of government built around it. To her left lay the shambolic architecture of Flea Bottom in various stages of disrepair and new construction. Much of the recent development could be attributed to Littlefinger’s efforts to revitalize the area, though she supposed many would disapprove of his methods. 

She made her way over to the man himself standing by the stove in the kitchen area of the room. He was dressed casually in jeans and a dark t-shirt, and it was a departure from the norm almost more shocking than seeing him naked had been last night. He had shaved, but his hair was still mussed. He looked up from the food to smile at her, and gestured behind himself toward the set table. “Won’t be a minute. Have a seat.” 

She did so, taking a sip from the glass of water in front of her as she watched him ladle the contents of the pans onto the plates waiting on the counter. Oh good, she thought, they could talk treason over eggs and bacon. She waited until he set a plate in front of her before speaking. 

“So how do we do this? Secret handshakes? Exchange blood oaths?” she asked as he sat at the seat across from her. 

“I was quite satisfied with the accord we reached last night.” His smile was filthy, and she fought a blush. 

“Sorry, I’ve never been part of a conspiracy before.” She scooped up a forkful of the fluffy eggs, taking a portion of fried tomato with it. 

Green eyes flashed at her. “We both know that’s not entirely true,” he drawled, “though we could count this as the first one you weren’t born into.” 

She took a bite of food, pretending she wasn’t avoiding an answer. When she had been old enough, her father and mother had taken her aside to explain that their family was different to others of their acquaintance. How there seemed to be a separate set of rules for some, why they used the title ‘king’ for her father’s loud friend only in private. Her father believed the grand deception to be necessary; he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the liberties taken by some members of the nobility, but was convinced the old traditions were required to guide and shape their world. Her mother held a more skeptical view of it, but largely kept it to herself. As Sansa grew older she became less and less comfortable with the way things were; how power seemed to be only used for selfish reasons, and never resolved the deep inequalities and injustices apparent to her. 

He seemed to take pity on her, and continued, “How about we start with some information?”

She nodded, swallowing the mouthful. 

“You’re aware that Lady Baratheon and her brother are, shall we say, close.”

“Yes.” It was difficult to miss how the de facto queen preferred the company of her equally golden twin. Jaime Lannister was a regular presence in the Baratheon household. He’d followed his father into the military before he’d lost his hand in combat, and was now the head of a private security firm with many lucrative government contracts. 

“Something which you probably do not know, as few do and live to tell it, is that our beloved king has no true heirs.”

She blinked. He seemed to be implying something horrible, beyond thinking. “You mean Joffrey…”

She couldn’t finish the sentence, but didn’t need to, as he said it for her. “And his siblings, all three, are the product of incest.”

She felt ill suddenly. The things she had let that monster do to her, had _wanted_ him to do, at first, were now so much worse. She felt disgusted, even more ruined than she already did, and withdrew into herself. Her tumultuous thoughts were interrupted by a warm hand covering her own clasping the fork tightly. Her eyes were drawn upward; his expression was empathetic, a look she had never thought to picture on his face. She refused to acknowledge the strength she drew from his offered comfort.

“There is another thing…” He seemed almost reluctant to tell her, but what could be more shocking than what he’d already revealed?

“What is it?” Her expression hardened.

“Your brother, Bran.” He swallowed, and she watched the movement of his Adam’s apple up and down before meeting his eyes again. “I suspect his fall was no accident. It is likely he caught Cersei and her brother, and was pushed by one of them to prevent the revelation of their shameful secret.”

“How do you know?” She’d suspected as much, but to have it confirmed stoked the fires of her hatred anew.

“I have my ways,” he demurred, his appearance sly. 

She would press him on this later, but let it lie for now. “What do we need to do?”

He seemed impressed with her quick assimilation of information, and looked almost proud of the bloodthirsty expression she now wore. 

“Our first order of business is unshackling you from Joffrey.”

She scoffed. “I don’t see how it’s possible. He doesn’t like giving up his toys. I would have broken it off long before now if I were willing to risk what he would do in retaliation.” 

“Which is why we’ll make it his idea.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“By turning his attention elsewhere.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than your prostitute, no matter how good she is.”

“You’re right, of course. It’ll have to be a match at least as politically and financially advantageous.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You already have someone in mind?”

“Margaery Tyrell.”

Sansa was baffled. “She would never be so stupid; she knows what he’s like—”

“Yes, as does Olenna Tyrell. They know him for the impetuous, brainless child he is, and think he can be controlled. They’re on a mission to collect Baratheon’s, it seems. Loras’s marriage to Renly will be just the beginning.”

She took a moment to absorb the idea, and he watched her carefully. “So what’s our next move?”

He finally tucked into the plate in front of him, his expression hungry as he eyed her. “We wait, and let our enemies dig their own graves.”

It sounded impressive, but she hoped he would have more details for her at some point. And return her damn dress. 

************

Thanks for reading. As always, any feedback would be appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwanted summons leads to a rather more rewarding car ride...

“You’ll never believe who I ran into at Topshop yesterday—Gwyneth Yronwood! And you’ll never guess who she was with…”

She nodded encouragingly, and Jeyne launched into a detailed, if trivial story about people that concerned Sansa very little but Jeyne seemed fascinated by. She was enjoying the idle chatter her friend always had in endless supply, chiming in where necessary, mostly absorbed in her salad and her own thoughts. They had taken advantage of the sunny and unseasonably warm afternoon by having lunch outside. The last few weeks had been a blur of papers and deadlines as term drew to a close, but to Littlefinger’s credit, her life had been significantly less burdened by Lannisters. 

Cersei was too distracted by her deteriorating marriage to indulge in her third favorite pastime of needling her future daughter-in-law (behind drinking and shagging her brother, not necessarily in that order), though the obligatory Baratheon dinners had become icy, barren wastelands of conversation to navigate through. In a more than welcome turn of events Joffrey had for the most part kept his hands off of her; he’d been spending more and more time at Petyr’s club, slipping deeper and deeper into the clutches of the perversions he offered. The resulting repetition was a trial for all involved, not only Sansa; she’d even exchanged more than one commiserating look with the Hound out of sheer boredom, to her surprise. She’d trade pain for tedium any day of the week, though. The one major drawback was how close the young prince and Ramsey Bolton were getting through their shared interests; the man made her skin crawl nearly as much as Joffrey did. Fortunately, she’d been able to beg off for schoolwork most nights, sparing herself the drudgery of having to watch Joffrey and his lackeys spend obscene amounts of money on liquor, drugs, and girls. The times she did go, there always seemed to be an opportunity to slip away from the group, and she never wandered very far before Littlefinger found her. 

Sometimes they didn’t even manage to reach his quarters in their zeal and made do with one of the many rooms the club had for that very purpose. She tried not to think about what had transpired there before them. Petyr attempted to reassure her by saying they were meticulously cleaned, but she replied that was hardly the point. She preferred the maze of secret passages he’d built into the walls, used by himself and only a select few of his employees who were quite discreet while turning a blind eye to their activities. 

She was disconcerted when she realized their communication had moved beyond exchanges of information into real conversations, occurring almost daily. Moreover, she couldn’t recall when things had changed. When he wasn’t intentionally being an ass he was charming and funny, which made him all the more dangerous. The twists and turns his slippery mind took captured her attention in a less than healthy way, as well. She couldn’t afford to let this mad attraction evolve into anything deeper. 

She noticed Jeyne furrowing her brow at something over Sansa’s left shoulder. “Sansa…”

She had just stuck a forkful of salad in her mouth and begun chewing, so could only manage an undignified noise. “Mmm?”

“There’s a creepy man staring at you.” 

_Story of my life._ She swallowed her mouthful before asking, “What?”

“He’s got a nice car though.”

 _Bollocks_. She turned around in her seat to where Jeyne was looking and, sure enough, Petyr Baelish was leaning against a parked car a few yards away as if her thoughts alone had summoned him, arms crossed in a way which she was sure he intended to be rakish. She had the familiar urge to slap that smug expression off of his face.

“Do you know him?” Jeyne sounded concerned, but Sansa hardly noticed. 

“Not really. I’ll be back.” She set her fork down lest she be tempted to use it. He wasn’t supposed to show up anywhere near her school without a warning. She had her privacy invaded enough by her fiancé and his family as it was. 

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?” She let her irritation show freely as she neared him. 

“Hello my dear, I’m so glad to see you, too.” His arms had twitched as if attempting to reach for her on their own before he stopped himself, conscious of their public surroundings and her roommate’s curiosity, but his eyes wandering over her felt almost as tactile a sensation.

“Why are you here?” She resisted the childish urge to stamp her foot.

“Officially I’m to bring you to Cersei for some undoubtedly abominable bonding activity she has in mind for the two of you, but I thought it might be a good opportunity for us to fuck in the car.” He raised an eyebrow in invitation.

She glanced around quickly; luckily no one was close enough to hear him. There was a high probability of them being watched, considering how easily he had found her, but she could only hope their observers couldn’t lip-read. “We’re not doing that.” 

“Pity.”

“Why would she send you?” Now that she thought of it, Cersei had punctuated one of her many disparaging comments about Sansa’s appearance with the vague threat to take her shopping to correct it. She supposed now was a good a time as any for Cersei to inconvenience her, but she wouldn’t submit to the imposition with anything approaching good grace, regardless of the messenger.

“She cornered me after the meeting today and ‘requested’ I deliver you. She enjoys ordering me about on menial tasks as if I’ve nothing better to do than cater to her every whim. I also suspect she believes I make you uncomfortable.”

“You do.” Sansa replied darkly. 

“You wound me, sweetling.”

She didn’t deign to acknowledge his look of mock hurt, only sighing as she surrendered to the inevitable. Sansa walked back over to where she and Jeyne had been sitting and started gathering her things. “I’ve got to go. Cersei wants to take me dress shopping for the wedding.”

“Oh how lovely!” Jeyne was easily impressed with the conspicuous wealth of the Baratheons, and could never understand why Sansa always seemed less than enamored of it. “Is he a driver?” She sounded dubious as she looked back over at Petyr, who had the audacity to give her a wave. 

“Something like that. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Sansa tossed the remaining portion of her salad in the bin, suddenly no  
longer hungry. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Bye!” Her roommate waved at her, still eyeing Baelish with skepticism. 

He opened the door for her before getting in on the driver’s side. The impractical coupe had little in the way of a back seat, so Sansa tucked her bag by her feet. As she settled into the seat she found herself relaxing in the relative safety of his car, more at ease than she really should have been. He pulled away from the curb and merged into the line of cars on the main road smoothly.

“I have some news I think you’ll like.” He eyed her in between changing lanes. 

“What’s that?” 

“Daenerys Targaryen is pregnant.” He said it as if it should mean something to her.

“That’s wonderful. Good for her. And I should care because?” She knew he never said or did anything without purpose, but was unwilling to expend the energy to follow his habitual trail of breadcrumbs today.

“Because of how very unhappy it’s making our dear King and his advisors.”

“Right…” Ordinarily she might responded with more enthusiasm, but the prospect of spending the better part of an afternoon and evening with Cersei Lannister put a limit on the level of schadenfreude she was currently capable of.

He continued; his attention split between her and the road in front of them. “Panicked men make poor decisions, and Robert has terrible judgment at the best of times. I suspect he’ll try to have her killed.”

She frowned. “So what do we do?”

“About her Dothraki spawn? Nothing.” 

“You’re fine with having a pregnant woman murdered?” It shouldn’t have surprised her.

He shrugged. “I don’t particularly care either way. If it makes you feel better, the plans they’ve proposed so far are unlikely to work. It would suit our purposes better if he fails, anyhow.”

His nonchalance chilled her, but she considered it a good reminder of the completely amoral nature of the man she had allied herself with. Any response she may have made was suddenly forgotten when Petyr was forced to slam on the brakes as they rounded a bend. Unmoving cars stretched out before them for what looked like miles on the motorway. 

“Ugh, we’ll be here for hours. This is all your fault.”

“Are you accusing me of causing the traffic?” He seemed merely amused by her slander. 

“I’m sure you’re responsible for all manner of foul things.” She knew she was behaving rather like a sulky teenager, but  
thought she deserved it every once in a while, considering the bullshit she dealt with on a daily basis. She started messing with the radio, flipping through stations in a way she knew irritated him. When he didn’t react as she expected, it perversely irked her further. She was about to tell him off for ignoring her when she felt his hand on her thigh, fingers drawing patterns over it to curled upward and inward under her skirt.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Her eyes snapped to his. 

“You’re clearly in a bad mood. I just wanted to make you feel better.” 

“How is this supposed to make me feel better?” She put a hand on top of his, but didn’t halt its ascent up her leg. 

“It always has before.”

“We can’t. Someone will see.” She looked through the tinted windows at the cars around them. No one looked back. The low-slung seats coupled with the high door panels and darkened glass meant the occupants on either side of them would have a limited view of the car’s interior, but it wasn’t enough for Sansa to be entirely comfortable with it. 

“And what deviant acts are you planning to draw their attention?” he asked, wickedly, a glint in his eyes.

“Petyr…” Her hand gripped his wrist loosely as his fingers dipped underneath her panties. _Gods damn him._ He was criminally good at this, and, worse, very much knew it. She tried to keep her expression as neutral as his, barely looking at him out of the corner of her eye. His other hand tapped the steering wheel as if in impatience while the one beneath her skirt twisted expertly, his fingers dipping into her cunt as his thumb found her clit. She gripped the dash in front of her with her other hand and tried to breathe evenly. The sounds hitting her ears, the radio, the idling engines and indignant honks around them, faded into background noise as she was able to focus on little else but his touch. When she opened her eyes again she was a bit gratified to see his own respirations had grown rapid and shallow, pretense of indifference abandoned as his eyes latched onto hers. She noticed movement several cars ahead of them. 

“Petyr, the traffic…” she could only talk in gasps.

“We’ll just have to make this quick then.”

He leaned over the divider toward her, redoubling his efforts, pinching her clit between his thumb and the fingers not buried inside her, the pressure almost too much to bear as he hissed into her ear--

“Come for me, Sansa.” 

She shut her eyes again as the familiar wave of pleasure crashed over her, unable to hold in a moan. When she could open them again, she noticed the old man in the white van to their left was looking at her oddly. She turned away, trying to control her rapid breath and the flush that was no doubt adorning her face and upper chest. She watched Petyr leer at her, licking his fingers clean before putting the car into gear and joining the slow stream of traffic around them. She noticed his hand pressing down on what looked to be an uncomfortably sizeable erection straining the confines of his trousers before returning to the steering wheel. 

“I’m not helping you with that.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Such a cruel girl, to taunt me so.” He smirked back, but didn’t press her. 

The silence was surprisingly comfortable as she recovered her composure. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing his unorthodox methods had worked, but supposed he could tell when he was able to draw her back into conversation. He gave her all the details of the Boltons’ latest activities; a house traditionally aligned with her father’s, but now had evidently been making moves to ingratiate themselves with the Lannisters. Far too soon for Sansa’s liking, they reached Robert Baratheon’s gargantuan mansion just outside the city. As they pulled up in front of it, Sansa realized she’d been wrong earlier; now she would much prefer being stuck in traffic with Petyr for any amount of time than enter Cersei’s domain. 

“It’ll be fine. I have every faith you can handle her. You always do.” Petyr’s look was surprisingly sympathetic. 

She gave him a shaky smile before opening the door and climbing out. She could tell he wanted to kiss her, but the guards and security cameras held him back. He settled for a brush of his thumb over her wrist, the movement hidden by her body as she reached for her bag. 

“Thanks, Mr. Baelish.” She affected a neutrally polite tone before she shut the door. She was very conscious of the lingering wetness between her thighs and resisted pressing them together as she made her way up the ostentatious path. He waited for her to reach the top step before driving away, the roar of the sports car’s engine a rude interruption to the quiet of the elegant street. The door was opened for her without a word from the men on either side of it. 

The first Lannister she came upon in the drawing room proved not to be Cersei, but her younger brother, lounging on one of the many oversized chairs, shirt partially unbuttoned and tie discarded, with the ever-present glass of something dark brown over ice perched next to him. He hopped down from the seat when she entered to greet her. 

“Sansa!” Tyrion’s welcoming smile was always genuine, as was her kiss to his cheek. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” 

“Lady Baratheon was kind enough to offer to rectify the deficiencies in my wardrobe in light of the upcoming wedding.”

“You have my sympathies. Do you want something to drink?” He wandered over to the well-provisioned side table, topping up his own glass.

“No, thank you.” She answered politely, taking a seat on the opposite chair. 

“You can learn a lot from my sister. May I offer some advice?” His tone turned conspiratorial, and his expression mischievous. 

“Yes?” she answered, grinning back.

“If you ever find yourself uncertain where to draw the line between daring and whorish, just think, what would Cersei wear? And then pick its opposite.” 

She laughed shortly before curtailing it, glancing about quickly, very aware of the eyes and ears ever-present around them. Tyrion saw her discomfort and sought to change the subject as he retook his seat. “Last time we spoke, you were telling me about Archmaester Karras’s finer points on contract law…”

She happily picked up the gambit, and launched into her latest assignments with an enthusiasm he seemed to match. Tyrion Lannister was the most well-read person she’d ever met, and could hold a decent conversation on nearly every subject. He always asked her questions that made her think about the material in new ways, and seemed to take real pleasure in their conversations. He collected degrees like his siblings did designer wear, to his father’s eternal disappointment, though Tyrion would argue he got more use out of them. It wasn’t long, however, before they were interrupted.

“Is my dear brother bothering you, little dove?” How one person could fit such disdain into a single sentence, Sansa would never know. It was almost admirable. Sansa stood quickly, giving the aggressively regal woman a demure curtsy which Cersei didn’t bother acknowledging. 

Sansa was saved from reply by Tyrion’s equally sarcastic greeting. “My loving sister, how wonderful to see you. What’s it been, two, three hours? Not nearly long enough.” He didn’t bother to get up this time. 

“What are you doing here?” Cersei fairly spat, dropping the false courtesies.

“Father asked me to meet him here to speak with Robert concerning…recent developments. Quite alarming, as I’m sure you know.” He took a lazy sip from his glass and swirled it, which made his sister purse her lips into a thin line.

“Yes, I’m sure you have much to discuss. Better get on with it, and stop depleting the stores of our best liquor.”

“My apologies; I’d thought whatever meager amount I’d consume would hardly be noticed, but a drop in the ocean compared to your daily quota.”

“Robert’s in the study. Either get up there or get your sorry little arse out of my house.”

“How could I resist such a kind invitation?” He eased himself out of the chair with a smooth motion unexpected for his awkward stout frame. “I bid you adieu, sweet sister. And it was a delight, as always, Sansa.” He bowed to her, and she gave a small, hesitant nod back under Cersei’s malevolent gaze.

Cersei followed her brother’s ambling progress out of the room and up the stairs before turning her attention back to Sansa, her flat, cold mask of a smile back in place. “Did Littlefinger give you any trouble, my dear?”

“No, my lady.” She fought a blush with every fiber of her being but let her discomfort otherwise show. 

“Odious little man, but he has his uses. Come,” she said, absently motioning at the servant by the door to bring the car around. “Joffrey will be wearing blue, and I have no doubt it’s going to take all night to find something in it that looks good on you.”

Sansa buried her rage beneath a diffident smile, as she always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. As always, any feedback would be much appreciated. I'll try to update as often as I can.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rainbow wedding arrives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been following this story. I'll try to update when I can.

 

The wedding was gorgeous, unsurprising considering the grooms. Loras was dressed in green and gold, a subtle floral pattern adorning his bow tie. Renly was slightly more demure in black with green and golden highlights, a stag pin on his breast. The High Septon had performed the ceremony with grace, the vows beautiful and heartfelt. The reception that followed was even more lavish, and promised to be the social event of the year. Sansa stood in the line to greet the couple quietly, ignoring Joffrey’s obnoxious presence beside her. She wished she could join her parents with Robb and Talisa, but her obligation to serve as Joffrey’s unwilling arm accessory took precedence. Looking around the elegantly decorated room, she noted representation from the vast majority of the noble families, but there were also greater number of the common folk than one would expect.

Renly Baratheon had forged a unique path for himself in the shadow of his older brothers, getting elected to the House of Commons in an impoverished district and giving every appearance of caring for his constituents, who seemed to love him in return. He’d done a remarkable job bringing investments to the area, earning the respect of the public at large, and remained well-liked for a politician. Loras similarly had defied his family’s wishes and pursued a career in professional football, of all things. His skills on the pitch would have made him a household name even without his vaunted lineage, and the combination made him an even bigger celebrity than his new husband. Their unprecedented courtship had captured the hearts and minds of a surprisingly tolerant nation, turning what would have been a scandal only a few years prior into a triumph of good publicity. Sansa knew, however, that the old guard had not accepted the relationship so easily. She’d heard Robert rail against it enough to be certain of that. From the way Renly had just flinched at his brother’s supposed congratulations, she guessed the oaf had made his sentiments clear. His wife long ago had given up on apologizing for the brutish behavior of her husband, and merely offered her own felicitations, no doubt carefully constructed for the best possible publicity when compared to Robert’s. She absently noticed Cersei’s outfit complemented her twin standing by the bar with Tyrion much more than her own husband. By the time it was Stannis's turn to pay his respects, Sansa was close enough to hear their conversation. She was surprised to find the notoriously religious man polite in contrast to his brother, if a bit stiff, and even his horror of a wife managed to avoid mentioning eternal flames of damnation in her address to them. When the time came for Sansa and Joffrey to greet the new Baratheon-Tyrells, her fiancé was still flirting painfully with Margaery, who had been standing with the rest of the wedding party, leaving Sansa to deliver the formal greeting she had prepared alone.

“Minister Baratheon, I wish to offer my sincerest congratulations—”

“Sansa! No need for all that. Thanks so much for coming!” Renly interrupted, embracing her warmly while kissing her on both cheeks. She was a bit surprised; she had spoken to him on a few occasions, mostly Baratheon family gatherings, but was better acquainted with Loras through Margaery.

Loras’s greeting was just as friendly, his smile fit to adorn the cover of many a teen magazine. “It’s lovely to see you, Sansa. We’re so glad you could make it.”

After exchanging a few more words with the happy couple, again receiving unexpectedly effusive hugs from both, she fled to a dark corner of the glittering ballroom, the table mercifully empty like those around it. Margaery had been distracting Joffrey all night to her relief, though her very public move on Sansa’s fiancé made her conflicted; on the one hand, it would bring her a step closer to freedom from her Lannister prison, but on the other, her father and brother would be quick to defend her honor, which could get very messy. She took out her phone reflexively, leaning on the table in front of her. She wondered where Petyr was. He’d said he would see her here, though she didn’t know what he expected their interaction to be in such a crowded room. She alternated between watching Joffrey make a fool of himself, clearly under the influence of something stronger than alcohol, and playing aimlessly on her phone until she heard him step out from behind one of the curtains. Being seen together was a huge risk, not in the least because her parents were here, but nevertheless she felt him slide behind her, hands wrapping around her waist. They were mostly hidden in darkness by the curtains on either side, his hands on her shielded by the table, but if anyone ventured in to their corner they’d be caught. It didn’t seem to faze him, or he’d been unable to resist the apparently overwhelming urge to touch her. She didn’t know what she preferred to be true. In heels she stood several inches taller than he, but as usual, it seemed not to bother him in the slightest; his fingers drew abstract patterns over her abdomen, lazily straying up far enough to brush the underside of her breasts as he pulled her flush against himself, his breath sweet on her neck. She was annoyed and not a little worried about how much she had come to enjoy his touch, anticipate it even. The Seven forbid she begin to need it.

“Tempted to reclaim your beloved?” he muttered huskily into her ear.

“Hardly. I didn’t expect Margaery to be so indiscreet about it, though.”

“Subtly is sadly lost on Joffrey, I’m afraid. She’ll retreat soon, I’d expect, now that she has her hooks in him. You may have to actually dance with the cretin at some point.”

“And I’d been having such a good time.”

“Ah yes, what a wedding for the golden couple. I wish them a long and happy union.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow he couldn’t see but surely heard. “Do you?”

“You doubt my sincerity.”

“Of course not. Your love of the nobility and concern for their well-being is unparalleled.”

He laughed and pressed his hips into hers, already half-hard against her. “I bear those two no particular enmity. Renly is good company for the most part, by far the least objectionable of the Baratheons. Loras is…well, pretty, at least. It’s unfortunate the wits pass along the female line in that family.”

“Tommen and Myrcella aren’t awful.” She noted, seeing Joffrey’s siblings politely greet their uncle’s new husband with far more grace than their supposed father. They were on the younger side of the guests present but seemed to be fitting in well. It was a good thing her own sister and younger brothers hadn’t been forced to come. Arya would have strangled herself on the tasteful tulle decorations, and Rickon wouldn’t have been able to sit still for a fraction of the time needed. She noted with some sadness that Bran still seemed shy in public since his fall and long, arduous recovery. One of the many things she would pay back Cersei and her brood for in blood.

He snorted. “They’re no more Baratheon than I am, but not half bad for Lannisters.”

She felt Petyr’s hands still. He placed a light kiss to the part of her neck uncovered by hair before slipping out from behind her. She looked up and saw what had prompted his retreat. Robb and Talisa had noticed her and were walking toward them.

“Sansa! What are you doing hiding in the corner? Come on!” Robb fairly dragged her away from the table to the dance floor. She laughed as he started a silly (and not at all appropriate for the music) jig to the chagrin of his wife, ignoring Theon’s jeers. Sansa felt herself relax into the easy camaraderie of the group, dancing with friend and stranger alike until she was in need of a break and something to drink. Margaery had joined them on the dance floor without Joffrey, though seemed not to care as she cavorted with her brother and new in-law. Sansa guessed her fiancé was most likely getting high in the toilets again. As she made her way over to the refreshments, she noticed her parents standing nearby, strangely deep in conversation with Petyr, dressed in black and silver she hadn’t been able to see earlier that brought out the gray at his temples. It looked to be going as well as could be expected, judging by her father’s scowl and mother’s stiff posture. Petyr’s solicitous grin actually seemed to reach his eyes when he spotted her walking toward them. She wondered what the hell he was up to. Her father had noticed his attention and turned toward her as well, his expression seemingly caught between welcoming her and becoming more irritated with the man next to him. Her mother, always the more controlled of the two, greeted her with a smile, the tattered edges barely noticeable.

“Sansa, dear, come join us. You remember Mr. Baelish, don’t you?”

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Baelish.” Sansa kept her tone neutral, and politely extended a hand to him.

“Please, call me Petyr.” His grip on her hand was too familiar for their surroundings and company, and he’d slipped a swipe of his tongue in the kiss he’d placed on the back of it. The move was quick and subtle, but from the reddening of her father’s neck, he suspected some sort of impropriety.

“My, it has been a long time. You’ve grown in beauty to rival your mother. What are you up to these days?” This would be much easier if he’d stop leering at her and at least pretend that smug mouth hadn’t been exploring every surface of her sex only that morning. _Bastard_.

“I’m studying law at UKL.” She sent a frown and quick shake of the head in his direction when her parents turned away from her, but he only grinned more widely in response.

“That’s wonderful. Following in your father’s footsteps, I’m sure he’s very proud of you.” He sent her father a condescending grin. Her father gritted his teeth.

Her mother hastily jumped in. “Yes, we’re all very proud of how well she’s doing. She’s expecting honors for her first term.”

“Mum!” Sansa didn’t need to feign mortification, and could feel a blush heating her cheeks.

“It sounds like you’ve been quite busy.” Petyr managed to make the simple act of sipping from his glass licentious as he raised an eyebrow.

“We hardly see her anymore,” her father grumbled good-naturedly, turning toward her. “Even when we’re all in town.”

“Ned…” Her mother’s entreaty was clearly not the first of its kind, judging by the look passing between them, and it made Sansa feel guilty.

“Half of your family in King’s Landing and half in Winterfell. I do hope the separation isn’t wearing too much on you.” The concern dripping from his words ate like acid through what little remained of her father’s patience, and was beginning to rile her even-tempered mother as well.

“We make it work.” Her mother’s tone was iron, and did not invite further speculation.

Petyr cheerfully ignored it. “I’m quite relieved to hear it. I must say, it’s been refreshing having an upstanding pillar of the community like your father here to clean up the city. Troubling rumors of corruption have plagued the Met for some time now.”

Her father’s eye twitched; he was going to rupture a blood vessel at this rate. “Of course you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Baelish?”

“All I know is an unsafe city is bad for business.”

“Somehow I doubt that’s true for all of your…interests. I wonder how much we’d find on you, if we dug deep enough.” Her mother laid a warning hand on her father’s arm, but he seemed not to notice.

“I’m an open book.” He spread his hands wide, the very picture of galling false innocence. It was like a waving a red flag to her bullish father.

“You’re a worthless piece of shite, is what you are—”

“I heard your company is doing well, Mr. Baelish,” Sansa interrupted. Her mother gave her a strange look for it, but she was desperate to avert bloodshed at that point.

“It is, indeed, Sansa. We just finished acquiring a few smaller firms that should prove quite rewarding. You know, if you have any interest in corporate law, I’d be happy to arrange an internship with my company.”

She had no doubt she would get a thorough education in exploiting every loophole in the book, becoming fluent in equivocation, and navigating the grayest of morasses with ease. And, judging by his tone, participating in an exhaustive attempt to find the limits of his creativity in debauching her in the CEO suite. If his goal was to find out which of her parents would geld him first, he was making excellent progress. “Thank you, Mr. Baelish; I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Sansa, would you like to dance?” A sour, petulant tone interrupted what surely would have been an obscenity-laden (and possibly violent) response by her father. She never thought she would be grateful for Joffrey to do anything other than die painfully, but at the moment she entertained the repugnant thought of kissing him in gratitude for saving her from the excruciatingly awkward conversation. She may even have to thank Cersei for meddling, judging by the haughty nod the woman had sent them. She could only hope Petyr would regain his sense of self-preservation in her absence. Joffrey’s presence was a pain she had become inured to, made easier by his mother’s mandate that he be on what passed for his best behavior in such a public setting. They mostly ignored one another, which suited Sansa fine.

As Joffrey robotically led her around the room, she noted Petyr had finally left her parents alone and was now talking to a heavyset bald man in a richly colored suit. She couldn’t tell from their posture if they were friends or enemies, and was startled when the man suddenly made eye contact with her, smiling knowingly. She turned away, searching for her parents again. Fortunately, she spotted her father in much better humor, laughing with a clearly drunk Robert over something. Her mother was speaking to a group of ladies not familiar to Sansa. Crisis averted, Sansa let herself relax, absently calculating how many songs she would have to endure before being able to excuse herself. Her musings were suddenly interrupted by raised voices. She turned to look, and saw Robert arguing emphatically with Stannis, her father in between trying to calm him down. Everything in the room came to a sudden awkward halt as all present held a collective nervous breath. It looked for a moment that her father had succeeded, as Robert turned away with an indecipherable bark, before Stannis’s reply made something in the older man snap, and he lunged for his opponent in fury.

Many in the crowd around her quickly took out their phones, and the resulting camera flashes were a surreal backdrop to the spectacle; the image of the Lord Mayor of King’s Landing grabbing his own brother by his formal Field Marshall uniform would be plastered all over the internet in minutes, and the leading headline of every news outlet by morning. Robert had half a head and several stone on his younger brother, but also a considerable number of drinks and many more years of undisciplined living. His swings were wild, easily pushed aside or avoided by an always stone-cold sober Stannis. She saw her father trying to hold the king back with little success. Warring security forces, Robert’s in plainclothes and Stannis’s in military uniform, were at a standoff surrounding the fighting men, uncertain as to the protocol for this particular set of circumstances. She let herself be pushed to the back as the crowd rushed forward, keen to witness the shocking display. As she edged toward the wall, not at all eager to join the chaos the wedding had descended into, she felt her arm grasped by a strong hand. She turned, preparing to defend herself, only to see it was Petyr, a twisted smile on his face. Wordlessly, he drew her down a darkened hallway, opened a door she could hardly see to one side, and pulled her into a room. She barely had time to notice he’d brought her to the lavatory before he kissed her, pressing her up against the sinks.

“You look delectable in that dress. I’ve wanted to do this all night.” He growled into her ear when his mouth left hers to kiss down her neck, his hands working to unzip the back of her dress and pull the hem of it up her legs.

Against her better judgment she let him, but retorted, “I noticed, as did anyone with eyes. Are you trying to get us caught?”

“Oh, I doubt that. They’re all too busy watching Robert Baratheon take a massive shit over the Iron Throne and set it afire.”

“I didn’t expect Stannis to confront him in such a public setting,” she remarked as she slid his jacket off his shoulders, and he shrugged out of it before returning to the task of uncovering the skin her dress hid. Petyr had been carefully feeding the king’s younger brother alarming information for months—squandered funds, ruined alliances, self-destructive follies, greedy sycophants overstepping boundaries without consequence: leeches sucking the one true king dry even as he poisoned himself atop a crumbling empire.

“It turned out even better than we could have planned. A weak king is a dead man walking. It’s only a matter of time now. And they won’t be able to hide it like they did Robert’s Rebellion, not this time. Such are the wonders of modern society.”

This was an addiction, she decided. Why else would she be letting him drag her underwear over her legs and pull down the bodice of her dress to expose her breasts in a public toilet with the better parts of Westerosi society on the other side of a thin (and locked, she hadn’t seen but dearly hoped he’d done so) door? She looked over to it and he caught her.

“Are you going to let all those high lords and ladies hear you scream?” he chuckled, and his eyes were a blend of lust and challenge. He lifted her easily on top of the ledge before dropping on his knees before her. The cold stone of the sink underneath her was a rude shock that contrasted with the heat of his mouth as he licked and sucked her, humming in satisfaction as he did so. She leaned against the mirror at her back, supporting herself on an arm braced behind her, the other hand clutching the back of his head. He brought her to the edge quickly with tongue and fingers, but when she felt the first stirrings of orgasm he withdrew suddenly and stood. She made a sound of protest that he muffled with a kiss. She was well-used to tasting herself on his lips by now. She helped him undo belt and trousers to free his cock, long, thick, and heavy in her hand as she guided him home. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he grunted as the sharp points of her heels dug into his back. His pace was fast and deep; the position didn’t give her much leverage but she matched him as best she could.

“What do you think they would say if they saw Lord and Lady Stark’s perfect little girl with her legs spread wide, if they knew how wet you get for me, how divine you look when you scream my name?” he challenged in a harsh whisper, increasing his efforts as he felt her begin to tighten around him.

She felt arousal and anger well up at his words, the combination enough to push her over the edge, which then triggered his own; she bit him in the neck, harder than she’d ever dared before, and felt copper coat her mouth even as his come filled her in pulses, burying her cries in his flesh as he moaned her name into her ear. He thrust a few more times, drawing out the pleasure for them both. She saw the bite mark on the side of his neck well with blood and shut her eyes, overwhelmed. She’d caused that damage, had meant to truly hurt him in her ire, at least on some level; what did that make her? She’d never felt any pleasure when Joffrey had done the same to her, never thought herself someone who would enjoy inflicting pain on others. She was lost until she felt his warm mouth cover hers. He was licking his own blood off her lips, his tongue chasing the taste inside her mouth as he deepened the kiss. She opened her eyes when he pulled back, met his gray-green gaze and found something akin to understanding there.

He grabbed paper towels from the dispenser beside them and began to gently clean the mess between her legs. She too took some to press against the side of his neck, earning a small hiss in return for her efforts; he’d seemed not to notice the blood dripping down to stain his collar, making the black fabric even darker. She decided she wouldn’t apologize for it. He didn’t seem to need one. She wondered what else he would let her do to him, encourage, even; he didn’t seem to have limits, at least when it came to her. Though to be fair, nothing they’d done so far was likely to rank terribly high on perversion according to his skewed scale.

A pounding on the door made her heart stop. Petyr disposed of the soiled tissues, set her down on her feet, and helped her right her clothing efficiently before fixing his own.

“Petyr, what—”

Bafflingly, he pulled her deeper into the toilets away from the door. He opened the last stall and tugged her to follow him into it. He stood facing the back wall, ignoring her questioning look, before pressing against a nondescript tile. A portion of the wall fell away with a _click_ , the hallway it revealed barely lit. He smiled, gesturing for her to enter.

“How did you know that was there?” she demanded as she stepped past him.

“I own this building.”

“Of course you do.” She really should stop bothering to be surprised when he did things like this, as it made him far too happy, and he was smug enough as it was. He led her along a few passages until the sounds of a crowd got closer. They stopped before another unmarked door, and he kissed her before requesting she call him when she was able. She nodded and checked one final time that she was as presentable as she was going to get (again sans knickers, he had a terrible track record of stealing them) before opening the door. She stepped into what proved to be the large foyer of the building, surrounded by a sea of unfamiliar faces. She pulled out her phone from her bag, and saw a nearly endless stream of missed calls and frantic texts adorning her screen.

“Sansa!”

She turned to see a concerned Talisa rushing over. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere!”

“I got separated from everyone in the confusion.”

“Robb’s outside. I’ll text your mother to meet us there,” Talisa said, leading her toward the entranceway with the hand not carrying a phone. "Your father's still tied up getting the mess sorted out."

“What the hell happened to you, Baelish?” A voice sounding suspiciously like Tyrion Lannister exclaimed behind her, but she didn’t dare turn.

“Bit by a wild animal.” His voice was rough and wry, and she imagined the smirk that was surely present on his face. Sadly, Talisa dragged her away before she could hear the man’s response to that.

*************

Thanks for reading! Any feedback would be much appreciated. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast with the Starks...

“Play it again!”

Bran restarted the video at Arya’s request, Rickon bouncing eagerly beside them as the trio hunched over the tablet. From her place at the dining room table Sansa didn’t have the best angle to appreciate the sequence of events, but they’d already watched it six times and she could describe it in detail by now. The news station had edited the audio, rendering it an incomprehensible string of beeps interrupted by the occasional indefinite article and pronoun. She could see Robert’s opening lunge at Stannis, her father not even slowing him down as he grabbed the shorter man’s collar with one hand and swung at his head with the other. Stannis deflected the blow and those that followed, ducking and weaving expertly around the drunken salvos; if any had landed, they would have done considerable damage, but none came close. Her father tried mightily to step between them, but was unable to get a word or limb in edgewise. Stannis finally broke free of his brother’s grip, ducked under an especially wild swing, and rotated quickly around him to put him in a headlock. The result was mixed; the move protected Stannis from Robert’s fists, but the king continued to lurch wildly from side to side in an effort to shake him until finally, whether by design or alcohol-fueled accident, they stumbled backwards into the serving tables behind them and disappeared under an avalanche of icing and champagne glasses. The video cut out just as her father followed the pair into the mess between the upended tables.

“I can’t believe we missed that. Find one that isn’t censored,” Arya encouraged.

“I’m trying,” Bran replied.

“I can do it!” Rickon made to grab the tablet from his older brother.

“I’m doing it! Let go!” Bran pulled the tablet away from his brother’s reaching hands, and Rickon tried jumping over him after it.

“That’s enough of that.” Robb grabbed the tablet from Bran after he set a plate of eggy bread in front of him. Her siblings whined at him, a response really only befitting Rickon’s age. Sansa had offered to help Robb and Talisa with breakfast, but they’d sent her out of the kitchen with good-natured refusal. They were almost disgustingly domestic as they cooked, but it was worth it to watch her often-laddish brother puttering about a kitchen happily in a way he wouldn’t have been caught dead doing only a few years ago. Talisa had been an excellent influence on him since they’d met at the hospital where her mother worked as a nurse and Talisa a junior doctor.

“Ugh, why do you have to be such a loser, Robb?” Arya jeered.

“Ugh, why do you have to be such a whiny little brat, Arya?” Robb threw right back at her with a playful glare.

“You can't tell me what to do, you’re not my father!”

“Yeah but I can still kick your little pipsqueak ass!”

“Bring it, Spatula Boy!” Arya leapt to her feet, grabbed the serving spoon for the beans and brandished it at him with mock fury. Robb set the other dish he was carrying down and swiped the aforementioned spatula from it. They faced off, encircling the table to the delight of Bran and Rickon, thrusting and parrying at one another with the unorthodox weaponry. Robb managed to land a light smack on Arya’s head, depositing bits of egg in her short hair, but Arya retaliated with feint then jab to Robb’s chest that connected, leaving a brown stain on his blue pajamas just over his heart, which Robb grabbed theatrically, letting out an exaggerated gasp. Sansa noted that they’d succeeded in rendering both utensils thoroughly unhygienic and no longer fit for purpose.

“You have ten seconds to get butts in seats before I start smacking them.” Her mother had entered the room unnoticed in the commotion, followed by Talisa, both carrying more plates of food. “ _All_ of them.” She raised a meaningful eyebrow at Robb. Chagrined, Arya and Robb settled into their chairs and began shoveling food on their plates. Her mother sighed while taking her own seat, glancing at her phone before tossing it on the table. Rickon and Bran were still quietly bickering over who had been responsible for the confiscation of the source of their entertainment.

“Was that the hospital? Aren’t you out for the rest of the week?” Sansa asked her mother.

“Oh, they know. And they know I won’t go in just because they can’t cover shifts properly. I swear Stephens calls just to complain that he can’t hold things together on his own.”

“Should I be expecting a page too?” Talisa asked her, frowning.

“Maybe. There was a ten car pileup on the ring road north of White Harbor this morning." They exchanged commiserating looks. Her mother turned to Robb. "Anything from your father?”

“He’s on his way back now,” her brother replied around a mouthful of food.

“Save something for him,” her mother admonished her younger siblings, caught in the act of emptying most of the serving dishes in front of them.

“There’s more in the kitchen,” Talisa said, and made to get up to retrieve it.

“I’ll get it.” Sansa stopped her, wanting to be of some use.

“I’ll join you.” Her mother rose as well, despite not having eaten very much yet. She found out why when her mother put a hand on her shoulder to get her attention after they entered the room. She pulled her aside toward the pantry, away from the door to the room they’d just left. Sansa began to feel nervous at this unexpected move.

“Sansa, has Mr. Baelish ever been inappropriate with you?” Her mother’s brows were drawn together in concern as she looked at her.

Perpetually. He was rarely anything else. Sansa decided to feign confusion. “What?”

“Has he ever said or done anything to make you feel uncomfortable?” To her credit, her mother only hesitated a fraction, stumbling over the words almost imperceptibly.

She gave a careless shrug. “He’s weird. But before last night I hadn’t seen him in years. Why? I thought you were friends?”

“That was a very long time ago. He’s changed.” And she thought not for the better, from her tone. Her mother’s instincts were sound if not particularly timely. Although it probably wouldn’t have made much difference if they’d had this conversation before she started her ill-advised affair with him. She’d been fully aware of both his reputation and the history between him and her mother in more sordid detail than the latter would ever have given her when Sansa had slept with him the first time. Her mother continued, “Just—please be careful around him, ok? You know you can always come to me, right?”

She might have reminded her mother that she was of age and able to reap the consequences of her own terrible decisions, but the earnest, caring expression on her mother’s face and the kind hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Yeah Mum, I will.”

Her mother brought her in for a brief hug, which Sansa accepted readily. She wanted to ask her mother if she thought Petyr was still in love with her, but it would have betrayed an interest she’d already worked hard to conceal. For all the pet names he used for her, in moments of passion when he said anything intelligible it was her name, but that didn’t mean he wanted her for herself. Her mother still held the grace and beauty that had made a love-stricken boy get drunk and challenge a much bigger, older rival to a knife fight. She was often told that she reminded people of her mother, but Sansa never felt it ran more than skin deep. Catelyn Stark nee Tully had a commanding presence to match her husband’s, a bold strength Arya had inherited but had bypassed Sansa entirely. The only part of her mother’s nature she’d seemed to have been bequeathed was prudence, but Sansa had betrayed even that, as well as the honor her family held so dear.  Her mother would never have fallen for Joffrey’s iron pyrite prince and would have died rather than whore herself to him merely to save her own skin. Never in a million years would she have submitted to the advances of an untrustworthy man twice her age, much less join him on a murky quest for vengeance.

They broke apart after a bit and collected the pans with the remaining food now cool enough to set on the table. From the crescendo of noise on the other side of the door, breakfast had once again devolved into chaos. The cause was immediately apparent upon re-entering the room. Her father looked exhausted but was smiling even as he slumped in his chair with her siblings clamoring around him. He still had some white flakes of what must be icing on the back of his head which evidently no one had bothered to tell him about, and his rumpled suit was different to the one he’d been wearing at the wedding, no doubt needing to change at the office after the sucrose-riddled bloodbath.

“All right, all right!” he shouted over them in good humor. “I’ll tell you all about it once I’ve got something in my belly. It can either be bacon or one of your ears." He pretended to snap at Rickon, who giggled. The meal continued largely in silence interrupted by the occasional side conversation; most of their attention was occupied by watching her father eat the vast majority of what food remained at an impressive speed. Sansa took the opportunity to glance at her phone. She’d gotten a message from Petyr, but didn’t dare open it with her family nearby. It was unlikely that he’d send her a picture of his cock during breakfast, but with him you never knew. Joffrey hadn’t bothered contacting her yet, to her relief.

“That hit the spot. I didn’t get to eat anything all night. Those little things they had the nerve to call hors d'oeuvres don’t count.” Her father sat back with a satisfied sigh. He paused, looking around. “What are you all waiting for?”

A chorus of groans greeted him.

“All right, all right.” He held his hands up in surrender. “Everything turned out fine, no one was seriously hurt. Just scratches and bruises, thankfully. We spent the first hour hosing them down so we could tell them apart.” Sansa wondered if anyone else noticed the forced nature of her father’s levity, the effort behind his light chuckle.

“Who won?” Bran asked eagerly.

“That depends. Do you give more credit to Stannis for rendering Robert unconscious or Robert for pinning him while passed out?”

Her siblings peppered him with more questions until her mother finally interrupted them, “Come on, it's time to clean up. You know what to do.”

The protests rose again but died out in the face of her mother’s uncompromising stare. Talisa volunteered to supervise, leaving Robb at the table with a nod, and held the door for Bran as he wheeled himself into the kitchen with plates on his lap. Rickon and Arya followed, sullenly carrying their own burdens. Sansa stayed in her seat, determined to be a part of the ‘adult’ conversation. She’d been trying to get her parents to include her in the family discussions for some time now; she knew they’d invited Robb to be a part of them when he was much younger than Sansa was now, and it rankled. She could see her father and mother exchange a look, hesitant to start with her present. They were only trying to protect her, but right now she needed information much more than a false sense of security.

“I have to know. If Joffrey…” Sansa carved an expression of besotted worry into her features, swallowing the bile it triggered.

Her father and mother glanced at one another again, communicating silently before coming to a joint decision, apparently in her favor. Her father gave her a nod.

“What happened? It turned into a shit show on our end—sorry Mum.” Robb asked with an apologetic wince toward her mother.

Her father sighed heavily. Sansa felt a little guilty for her complicity in the machinations of the shit-stirrer-in-chief himself; the events they’d put in motion evidently had taken a lot out of her father.

“It’s bad. Officially, no charges will be pressed, but Stannis might as well have declared open war between them and Renly wants to disown them both as well. He was spitting nails when I talked to him, understandably. It would come down to Robert to mend it, and the gods know he’ll never do that.”

“And if he doesn’t?” her mother asked, tone deliberately neutral.

“Stannis has most of the armed forces behind him. Many of the commanders who nominally outrank him would follow him without question.”

“A military coup? He would risk the stability of the country over this?” Her mother sounded incredulous.

“He’s an honorable man, but if he thinks Robert is a great enough danger to the kingdom he won’t hesitate.”

“Is he?” Sansa asked. The other three looked at her in surprise.

Her father was silent for a moment. “He’s not the man I once knew. Twenty years ago I would have followed him wherever he led me with no hesitation, but now… Truthfully, I don’t know.”

“What do we do?” Robb asked, expression determined.

“We stand behind the king, for better or worse. I’m going to increase the security here and back at Winterfell.”

“You’re calling the banners?”

“Not openly, but we’ll start contacting the families. I’ve already spoken with Roose about it, and he’s begun preparations.”

Sansa could have told him Roose Bolton should no longer be trusted, but wouldn’t have been able to say how she knew. She listened carefully to the ensuing discussion concerning details and logistics of manpower and resources, and pretended she wasn’t spying on her own family. She tasted the duplicity toward her own flesh and blood as ashes in her mouth. Her father noticed her discomfort.

“I’m sure Joffrey will be fine, sweetheart.” Her father gave her a reassuring smile, which Sansa returned shakily. She was certain he wouldn’t; she planned on seeing to it herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much for reading. Any feedback would be appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter has come...

Sansa slipped out of the living room where Arya was occupied with thrashing Bran and Rickon in some sort of video game that involved brightly colored things hitting other brightly colored things and a scoring system that made absolutely no sense to her. Her parents had retreated upstairs, her father likely going straight to bed, and Robb and Talisa had left to do some shopping. She bundled up before opening the back door and stepping out into the crisp morning air. The temperature had plummeted overnight, and frost coated the lingering green of the garden around her. The walls of her room were too thin for the conversation she was about to have. Were they at Winterfell, she could have gone to the greenhouses for privacy, but in King’s Landing it was the best she could do. Her cold fingers fumbled with her phone before she was able to open Petyr’s message. She huffed in annoyance, and pressed the button to call him.

“Good morning, sweetling.”

“You’re disgusting, Petyr.”

“What? I was only telling the truth; I can still taste you.” She could practically see him licking his lips, and ignored the frisson of desire it sparked.

Eager to change the subject, she asked, “Anything new since last night?”

“Not particularly. Most of my evening was spent watching Cersei and her younger brother try to outdrink each other while we waited for Tywin to stop shitting gold long enough to drag his gilded arse in from Casterly Rock.”

“My father only got home an hour or so ago as well. They were at the Barracks all night.”

“So I heard. And what news did our dear Hand bring with him?”

“The Baratheons are at each others' throats, as we expected. My father thinks Stannis may stage a coup.” She couldn’t keep the apprehension from her voice, and knew he heard it.

“You knew that was a possibility when we started this.” She did, but it hadn’t seemed real when they’d discussed it; merely an abstract concept written on Petyr’s whiteboard, just one of many. He continued without waiting for her response: “It changes nothing. We plan for every contingency we can, and make adjustments when necessary.”

If he started quoting risk management strategy at her, she would throw her phone against the wall. “You’re a cold bastard, you know that, right?”

“And what does that make you?” His words cut her with the fine edge of the line between vicious mockery and light banter, keeping her off-balance as he always did.

She could have answered many things—a scared, desperate girl trying to protect her family; a selfish, deceitful whore seeking a vengeance she felt entitled to despite its high cost; a naïve fool drowning in the rising tide of her own mistakes. She chose blatant falsehood. “A poor, innocent victim of your schemes.”

He laughed, and the sudden tension between them released as if it had never been there at all.

“My father’s relying on Roose Bolton to make all the arrangements with his men.” Curious how suddenly Lord Bolton had become her father’s right hand man, when she knew he had closer relationships with other vassals, particularly Howland Reed and Maege Mormont. She had no doubt it wasn’t by accident.

“That’s quite unfortunate.”

“It’s a bloody disaster in the making.”

He was silent for a moment, considering. “If you can think of a way for him to know of the Boltons’ true loyalties without making a complete mess of things, you’re welcome to tell him.”

“No,” she said, frustrated. Her father had many admirable qualities, but subtlety and restraint were not among them. “He’d react without thinking and get himself killed.”

“And likely the rest of you as well. No, this will require very delicate maneuvering.”

She tried to think of alternatives. “How much of the police force would side with him?”

“Not enough. He’s only had a year or so to sway them. The Lannisters had decades under Jon Arryn’s deteriorating oversight.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d been hoping for, but wasn’t entirely surprised, considering her own less than positive experiences with the officers under her father’s command.

“Fuck.”

“Indeed. I’ll see what I can do. I’m sending you my updates; add whatever you have to it.” For his outwardly cavalier attitude, Petyr’s meticulous organization of the secrets he hoarded was nearly pathological. It was like having extra homework on top of her already packed course load.

“OK. I have to go. It’s freezing out here.”

“I can think of a few ways to warm you up…” he drawled.

She snorted. “Do the sleazy come-ons really sound that good in your head?”

“What are you wearing?” He exaggerated the natural rasp of his voice to a husky rumble.

She laughed at that. “Jeans, two sweaters, and a parka.”

“Leaving everything to the imagination. That’s fine, I like a challenge.”

“What are _you_ wearing?” she teased back.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” He’d have a smug grin on at the very least.

“You’re welcome to come here and find out for yourself.”

“What were you doing then?” As soon as the words left her mouth she’d realized they were a mistake.

“Touching myself and thinking of you. Still am.” He growled in a way that affected her far too much.

She’d walked right into that. “Ugh, Petyr—”

“You don’t think I can multitask?”

“ _Petyr_. I’m hanging up now.”

“Will I see you tonight?”

“Probably not. I’ve got family stuff for the next few days.” It would be good to spend time with them but exhausting all the same.

“Depriving me of your company so is the very definition of cruelty.” His disappointment seemed genuine behind his mock-wounded tone. She wouldn’t admit she might feel the same.

“I’m sure you and your hand will do just fine.”

He chuckled. “We get on well, but it’s nothing compared to you.”

“Goodbye, Petyr.”

“Bye, sweetling.”

She hung up and blew warm air over her hands. Beyond the wall demarcating their property she could see the silhouette of the city. From this distance it looked shiny, clean, and beautiful on the gray canvas sky. Sansa knew better. A single, solitary snowflake drifted down in front of her, and she caught it on the back of her hand. She watched it melt into her skin, the white crystal fading to clear liquid. The sound of the door opening behind her startled her, and she shoved the phone in a pocket before turning around. She was even more astonished at the identity of the intruder.

“Jon!”

“Hey, Sansa.” He grinned, striding over to her and sweeping her into a big hug. She returned his embrace firmly; he’d been on deployment nearly a year, and wasn’t expected back for several more months. They exchanged emails, calls, and the occasional video chat, but it certainly wasn’t the same.

When they separated she got a chance to look at him properly. His dark eyes were warm with the hint of melancholy so unique to him, though his features were sharper than she remembered and the army regulation-length hair still threw her off, so different to the curly mop that the girls of their acquaintance had gushed over growing up. His dark uniform fit him well, and he looked more comfortable in his own skin than he used to be. Of all her siblings, Sansa felt the most kinship to Jon; they were both outsiders in the family in different ways. She hadn’t always been kind to him, however. They’d grown much closer several years ago after she apologized to him for being a right bitch for much of their childhood.

“You definitely got taller since the last time I saw you.” He grinned.

She couldn’t resist. “I can help you get things off the top shelf now,” she said, slyly.

“Ouch. You got meaner, too.” He laughed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She couldn’t keep the wide smile from her face.

He shrugged. “We were called back early. New orders. Not that I’m complaining. I applied for leave last-minute, and it got approved. I didn’t want to tell anyone unless I was sure.”

Sansa filed away the implications of that for later.

“When did you get in?”

“Just now. They told me you were hiding out here. Everything alright?” His tone was light, but she could hear the concern behind it. He could always read her better than anyone else in her family.

“Just wanted some privacy. You know how it is.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “Yeah, I know.”

“How were the Frostfangs?”

“Bloody cold. They make Winterfell look like a tropical paradise.” He grimaced, brushing a few stray flakes off his coat.

She frowned on his behalf. “When do you have to go back?”

“I’m due at quarters on Thursday. After that, I’m not sure.”

“That’s great. It’ll be good to have you around for a while.”

“Yeah.” He glanced around, taking in the house and its surroundings before looking back at her. “Do you miss Winterfell?”

“More than I thought I would,” she admitted. Once she’d been desperate to be free of it, feeling trapped in a prison of familiar provinciality. She’d give anything to go back to the days when boredom was her biggest concern.

“Me too.” He stepped closer to her, searching her face for something. “Sansa…are you really okay?”

She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to fool him. She’d been slowly falling to pieces for months now; perhaps the distance between them made it more apparent to Jon than to the people who saw her every day. She looked to the ground, wrestling with what to say. The longer it took, the less likely he was to accept any lie she’d come up with. She decided on edited truth. “No, I’m not.” She drew her eyes up to his.

“What is it? Tell me how I can help.” He put his hands on her shoulders in a comforting grip.

She shook her head. “Everything. I don’t know.”

He looked worried. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

“Jon, I appreciate it really, but it’s something I have to do on my own.” She met his pleading gaze with unwavering resolve. He broke first, sighing as he dropped his head a little, accepting that the discussion was closed, at least for now.

“I’m always here if you need me.” He brought her in for another brief hug. She knew he wouldn’t let the matter go entirely, but he would keep her secrets. “And as your brother I reserve the right to punch the tosser bothering you in the face.”

If only it were that easy. “I’ll let you know.” She chuckled a little. A noise from the house drew their attention.

“How’s your _boyfriend?_ ” Arya drawled, leaning on the open door.

She felt like biting her own tongue every time she was forced to feign affection for Joffrey, but he provided an excellent excuse for her frequent communication with Petyr. The idea that either of them could be labelled something as innocuous as ‘boyfriend’ was laughable, though. “He’s my fiancé, and it’s none of your damn business.”

“Sansa swore! Sansa swore! I’m telling Mum!”

 _Shit._ She hadn’t noticed Rickon standing behind Arya in the doorway. Jon started laughing at her, and she punched him in the shoulder in retaliation. Snowflakes fell more heavily around them, covering everything in a fragile blanket of white as they made their way back into the house.

*************

_I’m here. Where r u?_

It was freezing, her head felt like an overinflated balloon, and she was beginning to taste something disgusting dripping down the back of her throat. The latest bout of coughing had left her feeling almost nauseous as she tried to catch her breath through her mouth, giving up on her congested nose. She leaned against the cold wall behind her for support. The quirky restaurant across the street that had been her destination exuded inviting warmth, but the thought of food made her sick. She thought of the hour train ride back to campus and felt something akin to despair. She should have had a proper lie-in this morning; damn Margaery and her fickle friendship to hell. She didn’t care that her supposed rival was probably with Joffrey at that very moment. She could shag him to her heart’s content, but at least she could do Sansa the courtesy of not wasting her time and dragging her out in the cold and wind only to abandon her halfway across town. She didn’t have the energy for this. She hadn’t felt refreshed at all by her break over the holidays, the rising tension from the impending conflict looming over every celebration and gathering like a storm cloud. Petyr kept her apprised of the moves that he knew of, still made in shadow as the various sides readied their forces. School seemed of little import compared to what was coming, the farce that was her social life even less so, but she still had to go through the motions nonetheless. The only bright side was the cancelation of the annual Baratheon Holiday Party, for obvious reasons.

She noted she was only a few blocks from the imposing shadow of Petyr’s club. It was late on a Sunday morning, but he’d probably already be there. He barely slept at the flat he kept by King’s Gate, and it was unlikely he’d had a sudden change of heathen heart and joined the masses on their weekly pilgrimage to the Great Sept. She’d started to dial his number before fully coming to a decision to do so.

“Sansa.”

She cleared her dry throat before answering. “Hi, Petyr.” He always seemed to pick up the phone too fast; it caught her off guard, and for half a second she couldn’t remember why she’d called him in the first place. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks. And you?” She could hear his amusement with the uncharacteristically banal exchange.

“I’m—look, it’s just—” she stammered, regretting calling him almost as soon as she’d done it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone now deadly serious.

“I’m in Flea Bottom. I was supposed to meet Margaery for brunch, but she bailed. I don’t know…” This was stupid; she should just hang up and hope the both of them could pretend it never happened.

“Where are you?”

“Umm…corner of Steel and Third, I think.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She blinked, taken aback. “You don’t have to—”

Silence was her only answer, as he’d already disconnected the call. She put her phone in her pocket so she could get back to rubbing her arms for warmth, watching the white huffs of her breath swirl into the twisting wind. True to his word, a dark car pulled up to the corner next to her less than a quarter hour later. He’d reached across and opened the door before she made it to the passenger side. She nearly fell into the warm car in relief. She took her gloves off and rubbed her numb nose, hoping icicles of snot hadn’t been forming there.

“Sansa, are you all right?” Petyr looked concerned, and he reached over with a warm hand to cover her frozen ones.

“No, I feel fucking awful.” She was beginning to sound like she’d been gargling rocks, and felt it, too.

He frowned at her, and turned the heat in the car up even further before pulling away from the curb, rubbing her hands with his in between changing gears. The short drive back to his building was silent; perhaps he didn’t want to increase her discomfort by making her talk. Sansa couldn’t remember ever arriving here in daylight. The metal and dark glass surface of the building had little color of its own, but reflected that of its surroundings with an almost iridescent sheen; it reminded her of a huge beetle carapace hulking over his section of the city. The attendants in the private garage he kept beneath the building were unfamiliar as well, and didn’t look her in the eye as she and Petyr passed them on the way to his penthouse flat. She was still shivering in the elevator, and he drew her into the protection of his open coat. The fabric of his sweater was soft under her cheek as she rested it on his shoulder. When the doors opened, he kept an arm around her as they stepped into the flat. He felt her forehead and frowned again.

“Go lie down.” He lightly pushed her in the direction of the main room before turning to walk away down the hall.

She took his advice and shuffled into the large room. From the piles of papers and open laptop on his desk she’d interrupted him doing something work-related. She passed it, making her way down a half-level to the sitting area, and picked the couch she knew from experience to be the most comfy of his furniture, snagging blankets to cover herself even in the warm room. A few minutes later, he set tea and some pills down in front of her, and she sat up to take them before retreating into the bundle she’d made of all the available linen. She turned on the massive television he hardly used just to have something other than misery to focus on, uncaring of whatever random program was playing. She made sure to keep the volume low in deference to Petyr at the desk behind her. To her surprise, though, he unplugged the laptop he was using and carried it with him to sit on the other end of the long couch on which she lay. She tried closing her eyes for a bit but could only toss and turn, feeling like something sharp was stabbing through her skull.

“What’s wrong?” Petyr asked, noticing her discomfort.

She opened her eyes again to look at him. “My head is killing me. I thought the aspirin would have kicked in by now.”

He perched the computer he was using on the wide arm of the couch and gestured to her. “Come over here.”

She made a face. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Such filth in that pretty little head, I’d no idea. My intentions are entirely pure, I assure you.” His green eyes were mischievously bright.

She tried for a skeptical glare, but it hurt too much.

“Trust me,” he coaxed.

“How many people survive hearing those words from you?” she sniped back at him, but crawled over to his end of the couch regardless, bringing the pile of blankets with her. He guided her down to lie on her back with her head in his lap, which earned him another distrustful wince.

He cradled her head in his hands, studying her carefully. His fingers dug into the indentation between her skull and spine with enough force to hurt at first, but almost immediately she could feel the muscles under his touch loosen. The tension that had been holding her head in a vice grip slowly released with each rhythmic flex of his fingers, and the pain lessened along with it. It felt rapturous, and she had to bite back a moan.

“Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Your mother had headaches too.” His expression was unreadable as he stared at her.

Thinking of nothing to say to that, she shifted to curl on her side facing away from him, head resting on his thigh, and closed her eyes. It must’ve been terribly inefficient having only one hand to type and click through his files, but his other never abandoned its task of gently combing through her hair, occasionally kneading the base of her skull. She dozed comfortably, dimly aware of him answering and making several phone calls, careful to keep his voice low.

When next she awoke properly, a few hours must have passed, judging by the shadows on the walls. His leg had to be numb by now too. His attention was still focused on his laptop, his fingers absently drawing shapes over her temple.

“That’s an awful lot of negatives.” She could see most of screen in front of him, and he made no attempt to hide it. She’d been surprised by how open he often was with her, as if he truly considered her a partner in his schemes.

“Fortunate then, that none of it belongs to you or me.”

“Whose accounts are they?”

“These are among the holdings of Casterly Rock, property of Lord Tywin.”

“Does he know?”

“No. And never will, thanks to you.” He grinned down at her proudly. Sansa returned it with satisfaction. The Lannisters thought her so little a threat that her presence was often forgotten in a room, which she used to her best advantage; Sansa had been stealing their secrets long before her alliance with Petyr, but with his help was actually able to make use of them. Joffrey was particularly lax with security and had been the easiest target, but she’d even managed to install one of Petyr’s programs on Tywin’s computer when she’d been left unsupervised with it, something Petyr himself had never accomplished.

“Do you think you could eat something?” His fingers traced across her forehead, brushing aside the stray hair that had fallen over it, his other hand rubbing the back of her neck.

“I could try.” She sat up slowly, waiting until she was certain the room wouldn’t start spinning before getting to her feet. He’d kept a steadying hand at her back as she’d done so, then rose himself, wincing slightly as he stretched out his legs. Sansa sniffled and rubbed her eyes, still feeling gross but significantly less so.

“I’ll get something started then.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and walked toward the kitchen.

Sansa decided being clean would make her feel more human, and headed for the bathroom. When she’d finished freshening up, she returned to the flat’s main area. He’d set the table and made soup; it was almost endearing. She settled into the seat next to him.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling.

“Of course.” The grin he returned was different to the one he effortlessly lied through. She’d noticed him wearing it more and more around her; she flattered herself that she was getting better at interpreting the cryptic language of his many expressions, and found the set he used for her entirely unlike the rest.

She lifted a spoonful of the soup to her lips experimentally. Her senses were dulled by her stuffy nose, but what she could taste was quite good. She ate slowly, conscious of Petyr watching her carefully as he consumed his own portion. His stare was so familiar to her now that she’d be more likely to notice its sudden absence if he stopped.

Abruptly, he said, “I have something for you.”

He withdrew a slender but dangerous looking switchblade from a pocket and laid it next to the bowl on the table before her.

She looked at it warily.  “Thanks, but I think I can handle the soup without it.”

“It’ll slice through necks almost as easily, which is why I’m giving it to you.”

“I’m more likely to stab myself with it than win a knife fight, Petyr.”

“Which is why I’m going to teach you,” he responded with patience.

She was aware of his close scrutiny as she gingerly picked up the knife, feeling the weight of it balanced between fingers and palm. She managed to flick it open without nicking an artery, which she considered a good first step. She pressed the unlocking mechanism and carefully pushed the blade back into the handle. She must’ve passed some sort of test, for when she looked up at him again he smiled. He stood, went over to a drawer, unlocked it, and withdrew a hand gun. He walked back to the table and set it down where he’d put the knife earlier. She looked at it with even more apprehension.

“I’m not carrying a gun around,” she said, flatly.

“You should learn to use it, at least. If only as a precaution.”

She touched the handgrip, pulling it toward her gingerly. “My father taught us to hunt.”

“Shotgun?”

She nodded. “And rifle.”

“Handguns are a bit different, but that will give you a decent grounding in the basics.”

She understood why he was doing this, but still wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. Intellectually she knew the danger of the path she’d chosen, but to be confronted with tangible evidence sitting right in front of her was something else entirely. People would die, perhaps many, and she would have a portion of that blood on her hands. It’d only be prudent to get familiar with the tools her enemies wielded, and hope she wouldn’t have to use them.

“Some basic hand-to-hand combat wouldn’t be amiss, either.”

“Sure, I’ll just add that to the list of all the new hobbies I can start with my overabundance of free time.”

He chuckled. “I’m afraid this takes precedence over stamp collecting.”

Sansa sighed. “Fine. Not tonight though.” She went back to eating her soup.

“No, not tonight. You’ll need functioning lungs for that.”

When they were finished, she tried to help him with the washing up, but he waved her off. She watched him clean up with the smooth, efficient motions that graced everything he did. When he was done he offered her tea, which she declined with a shake of her head.

“I should go.”

“Stay. I’ll drive you home in the morning. Or to the doctor, if you’re still feeling this poorly.” He sat back down next to her and brought his hand to cover hers, thumb rubbing the back of it.

She hesitated. Theoretically she had class in the morning and should go back to her dorm to prepare, but doubted she would be able to drag herself in tomorrow if she felt even a fraction of what she had today.

“Please.” He looked at her, entreating. It was the please that did it, rarely spoken genuinely by him. She nodded her assent. He kissed her fingers with a contented smile and excused himself to make a phone call. The exhaustion Sansa had been holding at bay despite her long nap overcame her. She changed into one of the sets of pajamas she kept at his place (fluffier and far more practical than the nightwear he’d bought her) and slid into bed. She knew his normal working day was just beginning—she could hear the distant sounds of the club coming to life levels below them—and was surprised when he’d reappeared from the bathroom dressed not in one of the suits that served as his armor but in sweatpants instead. Wordlessly, he lay down next to her and wrapped himself around her securely. As she drifted off to sleep she realized it was the first time she’d shared a bed with him without having sex beforehand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm trying to be better about responding to comments; they're very much appreciated. Also, if anyone would be interested in beta-ing, I could use the help.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And mutual fear brings Peace,_  
>  _Till the selfish loves increase;_  
>  _Then Cruelty knits a snare,_  
>  _And spreads his baits with care._  
>  -William Blake, _The Human Abstract_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for abuse, violence.

Sansa fidgeted with the hem of her black dress, restless in the uncomfortably stiff chair. She eyed the guards stationed by the doors warily. She was too nervous to pick up any of the myriad tomes Tyrion had deposited in the formal Baratheon library, likely to assuage his own boredom when he was forced to be here. It was equally possible that he’d run out of space for them in his own luxurious flat. Joffrey’s lazily malicious text that afternoon demanding her presence for dinner had been unexpected; previous such events had been cancelled repeatedly for the last several weeks. The ornate grandfather clock in the corner was the only voice in the room, mechanically ticking away the time she again had wasted for her by her would-be in-laws. She’d been kept waiting a good half hour, which was not unusual. Aside from some unsavory noises from somewhere upstairs that were better left unexplored, she hadn’t seen any of the family yet. She pushed the pointed toes of her shoes back and forth into the thick red carpet, feeling the texture underneath her feet just for something to do. Finally, she heard footsteps clicking off the marble floor of the hallway toward them. The door opened and, despite his earlier communication, she was surprised and not a little alarmed to see it was Joffrey himself.

“I’m so glad you made it, my love.” He regarded her with possessive disdain.

“Joffrey!” She smiled and stood up with counterfeit eagerness to receive an oily kiss, his tongue sour in her mouth. He gripped her more tightly, pulling her against him roughly as he deepened it. She affected the near-limp posture he seemed to favor. He stank of acrid cologne; his tasteless flashy suit was abrasive but almost a comfort in comparison to the reptilian weight of his body against her. He ended the kiss by pushing her away, surveying her attire with a condescending eye.

“Why are you wearing something my Nan wouldn’t wipe her arse with?”

Sansa looked down at her dress in concealed exasperation. The cleavage was subtle, the hemline fell modestly just above her knee, but it would hardly qualify as septa attire. “I thought we were having dinner with your parents,” she said with a ditzy, clueless air.

“My mother is at the Arbor with Tommen and Myrcella, and my father is…occupied.” He smirked. Feminine giggles and moans drifted down to them through the open door from one of the floors above. “So it’s just us, my lady.” His smile turned malevolent. “I can’t possibly be seen out with you in that, so I guess we’ll just have to find something to do here.”

_Shit._ She supposed it was only a matter of time before he’d be compelled to reassert his claim over her. She’d been lucky enough to have evaded him for as long as she had. She pasted a blank, happy smile on her face. “That’s wonderful, my love; I’ve missed you so much.”

“Have you been avoiding me, my dear?” The sweetness of his voice was vile, and turned her stomach.

“No, of course not.” She shook her head and bit her lip.

“Don’t you know better than to lie to me?” The cruelty that lived just underneath his skin showed itself in an ugly grin. Sansa let the mask of frightened, pliable waif settle over her face; it fit a little less each time. She wondered if she could skip straight to sucking his unimpressive penis or if he would need to slap her around a bit first to get it up. He grabbed her nipple through her shirt and twisted it painfully. She let out a whimper which she cut short, looking at him through cowed, fearful eyes. She carefully controlled her responses to him; too much, and the sport would be too easy, angering him. Too little and he’d take it as a challenge and push further. She glanced at the guards in the room, but found them stone-faced, as usual. “You stupid slut. You want them to watch, don’t you?”

“No, please Joffrey—” she pleaded, inwardly calculating that it would be to her advantage to make him decide to have an audience. Her degradation would work to sate some of his sadistic impulses, and there would be a greater chance of him hurting her more if they were alone. Besides, he’d been debasing her in front of others for years now; it couldn’t touch her anymore. 

He backhanded her across the face suddenly. “You never learn when to shut it, do you?” It stung, and would likely leave a mark. Going for her face this early was a bad sign. She needed to distract him before he escalated. If she could push him a bit further… She deliberately let her eyes jump over to the impassive men again. Joffrey grabbed her jaw roughly, dragging her gaze back to him. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, cunt.” He squeezed her face between his fingers. “You’re so interested in them, why don’t we give them a show?”

He pushed her to the ground in front of him. She feigned zeal as she reached for his belt. She brutally forced down recent memories of enjoying performing this act for Petyr; their relationship had no place here. She unzipped his trousers, and swallowed bile as she reached into his boxers. He was only half-hard, a tiresome inconvenience. She barely managed to free his limp dick and give it a few strokes before they were interrupted by a scream that bore no resemblance to the fake orgasms that had assaulted their ears earlier. It was soon joined by panicked voices. The guards immediately ran for the stairs. Joffrey stood frozen in front of her, clearly stunned. She dropped her hands and waited on her knees before him, not knowing what she should do. What seemed like ages but must’ve only been a minute or two ticked by before one of the servants came into the room, looking agitated.

“My prince, please come, your father—“

He pushed her away hastily, and she landed on her back, nearly hitting her head on the dark wooden coffee table next to them. He fumbled with fixing his trousers and made his way quickly out of the room. Sansa hesitated, and then decided to follow. She could always play the fool, and it would likely be worth any punishment she might receive. She trailed Joffrey up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway to the source of the commotion.

The scene was so surreal she had trouble processing it. She saw two young girls, nude, huddled in the corner of the opulent bedroom. Bottles filled with varied amounts of alcohol littered every surface accompanied by a kaleidoscope assortment of pills, and there was an impressive mound of cocaine atop one of the antique dressers. The naked king was flat on his back on the floor by the bed with two of the guards hunched over him, alternating in between blowing air into his mouth and pushing almost violently on his chest. A sour smell assaulted her senses, a pink foam bubbled out of his mouth with each chest compression, the sound somewhere between a dry crunch and a wet squelch, eyes wide and vacant, blood trickling out of his nose down the side of his face to the floor; his only movement was a rocking up and down from his men’s interventions. It seemed almost absurd to do such a thing to the human body. After a time, she could hear sirens approach as foreboding howls in the distance. The sounds grew piercing as the ambulance and other emergency vehicles pulled up to the house. The noise of their ascent up the stairs was thunderous. She was pushed into the hallway as the team of medics entered the room with the stretcher. They soon re-emerged with Robert splayed on it, a mask over his face and one of the responders still persevering at restoring a heartbeat even as they ran back down the hall and descended quickly. It took fewer men than Sansa expected to lift the corpulent monarch. An aide she recognized as Lancel Lannister ushered them down the stairs and into a waiting limousine. Joffrey looked lost, his face ashen. If he’d been anyone else, she might have had a sliver of pity for him. Instead, she had to disguise her delight in his pain even as she was concerned about the events unfolding around her. He didn’t speak or look at her the entire car ride, which was a blessing. She stared out of the window at the interplay of light and shadow over the passing buildings as the car sped through the slushy streets. Upon arrival, they were discreetly escorted into a private waiting room off the A&E.

Joffrey paced back and forth as they waited, the thick door not quite enough to muffle the cacophony of the busy room beyond. Lancel hovered over Joffrey when he wasn’t on his phone or talking to one of the other men with them. Sansa twisted the gaudy diamond ring that weighed her left hand down like shackles whenever she was forced to wear it, equal parts bored and anxious. She read and reread the poster opposite her seat advocating the importance of grayscale vaccination in newborns enough to recite the spiel by heart. Why anyone would hesitate to protect their children from the horrible though now fortunately rare disease baffled her; she was half tempted to sneak up to the maternity ward to proselytize to the stupid. Finally, a balding man with slicked back hair in a white coat entered the room.

“My prince, my name is Dr. Qyburn. I'm in charge of your father’s care. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the uncomfortable orange chairs.

Joffrey shook his head frantically. “How is my father?” he asked, sounding frightened.

“We’ve done multiple rounds of CPR and gotten no pulse. His heart has no signs of electrical activity, and he is still unresponsive.”

“There’s still a chance—”

“I’m so sorry, my lord. It’s been over an hour with no heartbeat. His Grace is gone.” Qyburn’s tone conveyed sympathy, but Sansa sensed something cold and dead behind it.

“No!” Joffrey collapsed into a chair with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. She was watching him fall to pieces, and it was glorious. Seeing that the distraught prince would be unable to participate in further conversation, Lancel stepped forward. He and the doctor talked quietly for several minutes before Qyburn addressed Joffrey once more. “We can take you to see him if you wish. I’m very sorry, my lord.”

Joffrey looked up, tears staining his face. “My mother—”

“Is on her way. Your grandfather should be here shortly, my lord.” Lancel put a comforting hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, encouraging him to stand. He did so shakily before following the physician out the door. Seeing that no one was paying her any attention, Sansa slid away to a corner of the room. Hidden by the vending machines, she took out her phone to text Petyr.

_Robert is dead._ Typing it didn't feel real.

After a few minutes, he replied— _Are you sure?_

_Yes._

_Are you safe?_

That was unexpected. _For the moment._ They seemed to have forgotten she existed, which she could hardly complain about.

_Where are you?_

_Blackwater East._

_Do you want me to come get you?_

She thought for a moment. _No I’m ok. I’ll call you when I can._ She put her phone back in her purse and went back to waiting with an innocent, worried expression pasted on her face. After a bit, Tywin Lannister strode into the room like he owned it and the rest of the hospital as well. Perhaps he did. Joffrey trudged in behind him, flanked by the hulking form of Sandor Clegane and Joffrey’s great-uncle Kevan with several other guards. Tywin turned to Joffrey and said gruffly: “Stop sniveling boy, there will plenty of time for that later.”

“Yes, grandfather.” Joffrey wiped his snotty nose wretchedly.

Tywin’s cold glare spotted Sansa still huddled in the corner of the room. “What is she doing here?” His forbidding gaze pierced her, and she held back a shiver.

Joffrey turned to her in surprise as if he’d forgotten her presence entirely. “She was with me—” he started to stammer.

“I do hope you were able to infer I was implying for her to be removed rather than expressing any interest in your activities.” Tywin arched an eyebrow in disdain.

Joffrey’s face reddened in embarrassment. “Yes, grandfather.”

Sansa found herself unceremoniously shuffled out of the room, which suited her fine. She wandered away from the hectic emergency room to a quieter part of the hospital. She found an empty patient room in a deserted corridor, and closed the door before calling Petyr. He picked up after two rings.

“Hello, sweetling.” His voice warmed her, and she could hear the sounds of the road in the background.

“Did you do it?” She would be furious if he’d kept her in the dark for this.

“I’m flattered that you have such faith in my abilities, but it wasn’t me. Cersei would be my best guess.” He sounded amused. “How did he die?”

She smiled darkly. “The papers will say he passed away peacefully at home in bed.”

“And the truth?” The anticipation in his voice was palpable.

“It’s partly accurate. I’m guessing they’ll neglect to mention the mountain of cocaine, two prostitutes, and enough alcohol to kill the Drowned God.”

Petyr chuckled; a deep, wicked sound that sent a wave of heat through her and settled low in her belly. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

She nodded though he couldn’t see. “Where are you?”

“I’m on my way to the Baratheon estate now. They’re calling for a meeting of the families. Joffrey’s going to be crowned king tonight.”

She frowned, taken aback. “Robert’s not even cold yet.”

“They want to consolidate power as quickly as possible. We expected this might happen. Besides, it works in our favor.”

“How was giving him _more_ opportunity to do terrible things helping, Petyr?” she asked, a little annoyed.

“Robert would never have allowed Joffrey to break the engagement. He valued your father’s friendship too much. Now the boy is free to pursue Margaery Tyrell at will.”

“If you say so. I don’t like it though.” A Joffrey drunk on power was not something she wanted to see. Hopefully Tywin and Cersei would be able to control him.

“He won’t get to enjoy it for very long.” His voice was dark and full of promise.

She echoed it as she answered, “No, he won’t. I’ve got to go. I don’t want them to notice I left.”

“See you soon, sweetling.”

She made her way back to the waiting room, just in time it seemed, as the door opened shortly after she arrived. Tywin exited without looking at her, Joffrey trailing him like a lost puppy. Sandor Clegane gestured for her to follow, his ruined face not unkind. She nodded gratefully at him in return. As they made their way through the hospital, she noticed from the television screens they passed that the news of the lord mayor’s death had broken. She was put in a car separate from Joffrey and his grandfather for the brief ride back to the mansion, and felt comfortable enough to check in with her family. She called her mother after trying and failing to get ahold of her father, whose phone had gone straight to voicemail each time—sending him texts was fruitless as he claimed to never understand the concept. Her mother had sounded worried and made Sansa promise that she would be careful.

When they arrived, the household was already a flurry of activity. She could see the various comings and goings through the open door of the library where she’d yet again been sequestered and immediately forgotten. She recognized a few of the new arrivals, the bald man who had been speaking to Petyr at the wedding among them; he’d called him Varys when she’d asked who he was. When Petyr arrived, he gave her a quick, subtle smile before disappearing into the drawing room where Tywin was holding court. Oddly, he only stayed for half an hour, leaving with another sly grin for her long before most of the others. She noticed she hadn’t seen Tyrion or his brother either; strange, considering the emphasis the Lannisters always placed on the importance of family. Cersei‘s return hiked the commotion up to a fever pitch. She was followed by her younger children, and Sansa was startled by how broken they looked. Myrcella’s eyes were bright with tears, and Tommen was whimpering. For the first time, she considered that while Robert was an execrable man and little better as a father, the lives of two innocents would be forever changed by his death. Cersei noticed Sansa lurking in the room and marched toward her.

She quickly rose and curtsied. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”

Cersei just smiled coldly. “Find her something decent to wear,” she ordered a nearby servant, “and cover that up.” She gestured to the bruise forming on Sansa’s cheek from Joffrey’s earlier blow. The maid bowed and dragged Sansa away to do as she bid.

Soon enough she was scrubbed and dressed to Cersei’s reluctant acceptance (not satisfaction, Sansa knew she would never attain that) and bundled into yet another vehicle with Joffrey. He was dressed in a military uniform with medals and other adornments that she knew he hadn’t earned. He sat next to her muttering over a piece of paper; she ventured to guess it was his speech. He looked up, noticing her attention, and smiled for the first time since they’d seen his father dying on the floor. It wasn’t pleasant.

“Sansa, dear, are you excited for the ceremony?” He studied her carefully.

“Of course, my prince,” she simpered.

“It’s Your Grace, now,” he said haughtily.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she quickly corrected herself.

“I’m sure you’re going to love it.” He smirked, and the smugness he exuded made her hackles stand on end.

“As you say, Your Grace.” She smiled timidly at him until he went back to memorizing his speech, and then looked out the windows, trying to not to dwell on what he could have meant for the remainder of the trip. He didn’t speak to her again.

*************

The walls of the Red Keep seemed impossibly tall as they drove through the gate. She’d been here before as a tourist but never for any official events such as tonight. There hadn’t been a need for it in her lifetime. They pulled into a parking lot separate from the main courtyard that lead to a smaller side entrance. They got out of the car and were immediately surrounded by armed security.  She lingered behind as the Lannisters organized themselves, waiting to be told what to do. When they started making their way into the hall, Sansa made to follow, but suddenly found her path blocked by a wall of dark fabric. She looked up at Sandor Clegane curiously. His face held a strange expression that if she had to choose most closely resembled concern.

“You don’t want to be here for this, girl.” His gruff voice was softer and gentler than she was used to.

Confused, she tried to get past him. “His Lordship commanded—“

He laid a massive hand on her shoulder and she stilled; fighting the actual stone walls around them would be more productive. “Believe me, this is no place for you to be tonight.”

She tried pleading with him once more, now thoroughly alarmed. “But Mr. Clegane—“

“No, little bird.” His push was gentle but unyielding, pity in his eyes. He gave her one last solemn look before disappearing inside the building, closing the door firmly behind him. The armed men on either side of the door eyed her impassively. At a loss, she wandered away from the door, watching the other richly dressed people through the iron fence exit their expensive vehicles and make their way inside the main entrance.

Something was very wrong.

**********

As always, thanks for reading, and reviews are very much appreciated. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He sits down with holy fears,_  
>  _And waters the ground with tears:_  
>  _Then Humility takes its root_  
>  _Underneath his foot._  
>  -William Blake, _The Human Abstract_

Littlefinger shifted the electronic tablet he always carried for official occasions to the crook of his arm; his hand smoothed down his already immaculate black diamond-patterned tie, straightening the mockingbird tie pin a micron or two. He wore a dark charcoal gray suit with a deep purple shirt, the former not dour enough to count as mourning attire and the latter not light enough to be royal, thumbing his nose at both. The silver of the tie pin was the only bright spot of the ensemble. He slipped a piece of gum in his mouth, savoring the familiar mint flavor as he bit into it. His Royal Fuckwit and Family had had him running roughshod all over King’s Landing in aimless, sometimes contradictory errands for the past several hours, which was equal parts highly suspicious and annoying as hell. As he waited for the festivities to begin, he surveyed the throne room and the representatives of Westeros’s noble families milling about it from his vantage point leaning against the wall. Rarely did one of them glance in his direction, likely out of fear they would accidentally make eye contact and be forced to speak to him. He was used to being looked upon as an unpleasant but necessary evil. The good lords and ladies were quite happy to have their money well-cared for and carnal proclivities indulged, but very much less interested in interacting with the man responsible for either. They treated physical contact with him as if he could infect them with a plague of commonality, and he wielded that knowledge like a weapon whenever social niceties dictated they do so.

Two such unfortunate souls presently wandered too close to his personal space. He bowed toward them, speaking through the jackal’s grin he perfected long ago. “Good evening, Lord Bolling.” _In debt up to his ears, likes to bathe in the fresh piss of young boys._ “Lord Lolliston.” _Invests well but squanders it on mistresses, enjoys being wrapped head to toe in cling film and violated with produce._ They both nodded back tersely before hurrying past him. He watched their hasty retreat with barely concealed glee until he felt his phone buzzing in a pocket. He retrieved it, and saw that Sansa was calling him. He slipped away down a quiet side corridor before answering. “Hello, my dear.”

“There’s something wrong.” Her voice wavered, eliciting a twinge of worry in his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“My father’s not answering his phone and the Hound wouldn’t let me in.”

“What?” He was having trouble processing the seemingly unrelated statements she’d juxtaposed.

“I was following Joffrey in when he stopped me, told me I shouldn’t be there, and physically barred me from entering the building. My father’s phone has been going straight to voicemail all night. What’s going on?” She was talking too fast, and he felt his heart-rate increase in response.

“I don’t know.” He hated having to say those words. “Go to the southwest corner past the kitchens. There’s a maintenance door to the left of the dumpsters that has no alarms or security cameras. The code is ‘54023.’”

“Ok, I’m walking there now.”

He noticed a message pop up marked ‘EMERGENCY’ on the device he held. He noted it was from one of the people he’d placed in the Bolton camp. Upon opening and decrypting it, he let fly a string of curses that startled Sansa. “What the hell, Petyr?”

“We have a problem. Stannis has gotten his hands on solid proof Cersei’s children are not Robert’s and given it to your father. He’s going to confront the queen tonight at the coronation.” He would have much preferred receiving that information earlier, but supposed it was better than not having it at all.

Sansa took a deep, shaky breath. “They’re going to kill him.”

“Most likely, yes.”

_“Did you know?”_ He could imagine the fierce glare adorning her face perfectly.

“I had no idea.” That he’d been kept out of the plan was worrisome in the extreme. Furthermore, none of his other resources had even hinted that something of this magnitude was going down. It had Tywin Lannister written all over it from sheer competence alone, and while he knew the old bastard disliked him intensely, it might be a sign they were suspecting his loyalties. More than they usually did, at least.

“If you’re lying to me, Petyr, I’ll kill you.” Her tone was steel. He knew she meant it, and it sent a shiver of excitement down his spine.

“Never to you.” He hadn’t, to his conscious knowledge, merely omitted certain things she wasn’t yet ready to hear. He lied about everything to everyone else. Most of the deceptions were mundane, things people would think inconsequential. His favorite color (blue, not green), his name day (he’d given different ones even before he had the capability of changing the records), that he enjoyed golf (he hated every second of it and only survived by fantasizing about taking the clubs to his fellow golfers’ heads), that he was allergic to cinnamon (not true, he really quite missed it), that he liked cilantro (it made everything taste of soap), that he supported Gullstown in football (no one was a fucking Gulls fan)…a million elements layered together to bury the wants, hopes, and fears of the weak, naïve boy he had been. The list was endless but keeping track of it was now second nature to him. He’d been doing it for so long that telling her the truth unvarnished with lies or ill-intent had been like trying to write with his non-dominant hand. Letting her truly see him for what he was felt like ripping open a scab that had hardened but never healed, and the flesh beneath was painfully sensitive to the slightest touch.

“If my father dies—“

“Then you can stab me with whatever sharp implement you want to your heart’s content.” The stupid, sappy part of himself he’d thought long-entombed that now lived for little else but to make Sansa happy had vied with the ruthless, calculating side that wanted her for colder, darker reasons—

“I’m serious, Petyr.”

“As am I.” –bringing the two halves of himself together had been uncomfortable, to say the least, but now they were in agreement; she was _necessary_. Neither would give her up or see her harmed now.

“You have to find my father and stop him.”

Petyr groaned inwardly. “Are you forgetting how little he likes or trusts me, sweetling?”

“Not at all. I can also vividly recall just how much effort you put into ensuring both.” He bit back a retort that Stark had started it by merely existing, well aware of how childish it would sound. She continued: “You’re going to have to figure something out because we’re running out of time. I’m almost there.”

He knew she was right, but didn’t have to like it. “Very well.” He cursed again, silently this time. “I’ll let you know where to meet us.”

Petyr hung up, walked quickly back toward the throne room, and began searching it. He spotted his quarry in the far end of the hall surrounded by uniformed men. Ned Stark’s eyes were red-rimmed and murderous as he spoke in low tones to Roose Bolton. Petyr strode over to Stark, ignoring the bloodless regard of the other man standing next to him.

“Lord Stark, if I might have a word—” he leaned in conspiratorially, but Stark turned away dismissively.

“If I wanted bullshit, Baelish, I have much more pleasant sources to get it from.”

He boldly grabbed Stark by the shoulder and pulled the taller man close to him. “If you value your daughter’s life, you need to listen to what I have to say,” he said in a low hiss.

Stark shrugged off his hand in quick anger. “What in the Seven hells are you talking about?”

“It would be best discussed alone, my lord.” He shifted his eyes over to Bolton and back meaningfully.

He received a reluctant nod from Stark, who motioned that his men stay put. Seeing he finally got the dolt’s attention, Littlefinger turned and led him to one of the unoccupied side rooms. He knew Bolton would be tracking their every move, but that would have to be dealt with at a later point. He sent Sansa a quick text telling her where to go once she was able to sneak in the facility. As soon as they entered and closed the door behind them, however, Petyr felt himself grabbed from behind, turned and brutally shoved up against the wall with Stark’s hands around his throat. It was most inconvenient, and limited his ability to answer any of the questions the imbecilic fuckwit began shouting at him. The tablet he’d been carrying fell in the scuffle, shattering the hardy glass screen against the ancient stone floor. “Where is she? If I find out you’ve harmed one hair on her head I’ll kill you. _Where is she?”_

It was apparently too much to ask that Eddard Stark be able to distinguish threat from warning. He struggled against the iron grip, trying not to let panic overtake him. He resisted grabbing the blade he always kept hidden inside his jacket and taking it to his assaulter’s face; maiming or murdering her father would be counterproductive. He’d nearly run out of air and options before Stark finally loosened his hold, allowing him to answer. “She’s here, she’s fine,” he coughed out. “But she won’t remain so if you do what you’re intending to tonight.”

Stark slammed Petyr’s head into the wall with another bruising shove but let go of his neck. “Explain.”

He painfully blinked stars from his vision. “If you walk in there and declare Joffrey a bastard, neither you nor your daughter will leave here alive,” he gasped, still trying to recover his breath. It was a stretch of the truth; they were much more likely to kill Ned in front of her and leave Sansa traumatised but breathing, as she was too valuable a piece to waste. He didn’t think such nuances were terribly useful at the moment, however.

Stark looked dumbfounded, a not-foreign expression on his face. “How—”

Petyr shook his head, frustrated. “That doesn’t matter right now. Stark, you need to listen to me. The Lannisters are going to kill you both if you don’t— ”

“You knew.” Watching comprehension finally dawn over Stark’s face was like a witnessing a bear trying to figure out how to ride a tricycle; clumsy yet mesmerizing. “You knew this whole time he was—“

“A weak, unstable product of incest with not a drop of royal blood in his veins? Yes. You have bigger things to worry about at the moment, and it’ll be even less relevant tomorrow if you no longer have a head,” Baelish spat. The back of his skull was beginning to throb. Years ago, he had intended to use the nasty secret of the royal family to set the Starks and Lannisters against each other; he’d been quietly collecting Robert’s bastards for years, encouraging the pregnant or new mothers (most of which had been in his employ to begin with) to threaten a paternity suit before silencing them quickly with money, and quietly tucking them away for later. He’d also had ample opportunity to collect samples from Joffrey given the sheer amount of time the boy spent in his clubs. That plan had become untenable with Sansa’s arrival, and he’d decided he would withhold the evidence until a more opportune time. As was his wont, he’d greeted the disruption as opportunity rather than inconvenience, and reveled in the effort it had taken to pivot from instigator to protector. The results were encouraging so far. Stannis and Cersei had made enough of a spectacle by themselves in any case. He wasn’t sure what Stannis had uncovered, but Joffrey’s genetic code alone betrayed a damning lack of diversity

Stark frowned at him, arguing doggedly. “It’s treason. Stannis is Robert’s rightful heir.”

Gods save him from the stubborn honor of the deeply stupid. “Look around you,” he shot back. “Stannis isn’t here. Neither, coincidently, is Renly. They’ve sent you in to do their dirty work for them and die at their convenience, too.”

Ned blustered, “I have men—”

“Chosen for you by Roose Bolton?” He was half-tempted to start smashing his own head into the wall; it would be less painful than this.

“Yes, what of it?” Stark narrowed his eyes at him in suspicion.

“You cannot trust him. He works for the Lannisters now,” he said, flatly. They would have to deal with the consequences of revealing that bit of intel later.  

“I don’t suppose you have any proof of this…”

Baelish waved a hand in the direction of the shattered device at their feet and said sardonically, “I would have, if you hadn’t attacked me.”

“How convenient.”

“Not, really. I was rather fond of it.” He spared the broken pieces one final mournful glance. He had backups, of course, but configuring a replacement was going to be time-consuming.

“I don’t trust you,” Stark growled.

“And you shouldn’t, ordinarily. But if I wanted you dead, I’d have let you barge in there armed with only your righteous fury. You’re very fortunate I have no desire to comfort your poor would-be widow.” He sneered back.

Stark went quiet, clearly trying to work things through in his head; the bear was now attempting to add juggling to its repertoire, and the results weren’t pretty. Finally he huffed, “Why are you doing this?”

If he let her father die, Sansa would kill him slowly or worse, deny him access to her devious mind and perfect little body. “I still consider your wife one of my dearest friends—”

The sound of the door opening saved him from having to continue.

“Dad!” Sansa suddenly burst into the room and launched herself at her father, seizing him in a strong hug. She was dressed in an ornate green gown that would have looked garish on anyone else (no doubt Cersei’s doing) but Sansa somehow managed to wear it with dignity. Words poured from her with startling speed. “I overheard some men saying that they were going to kill you but I couldn’t see their faces and I tried to find Joffrey but they wouldn’t let me into the room and you weren’t answering your phone and I didn’t know what to do—”

Ned grasped her shoulders and gently pushed her back. “Slow down, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

“Some men, I don’t know who they were, are planning to kill you tonight. I’ve been trying to call you. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t run into Mr. Baelish, if he hadn’t found you in time.” She acknowledged Petyr with a grateful nod before turning back to her father. “Why would they want to do that?” Her wide-eyed worried innocence was flawless. This was going to be delightful.

Stark cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “They think I’ll declare for Stannis tonight.”

Sansa laughed in disbelief. “Why would you do that? Joffrey is the rightful heir.”

“Stannis is claiming that he isn’t Robert’s trueborn son.” Ned’s expression turned apprehensive.

“What are you talking about?” she scoffed.

Ned appealed to Petyr for help. He wanted to chuckle. _Go fuck yourself, Stark._ Petyr merely shrugged in response.

“Honey, you’re going to hear some very disturbing things about Joffrey and his family tonight.” Stark swallowed hard. “He…he’s saying that Joffrey and all his siblings were…fathered by Jaime Lannister.”

Sansa looked shocked and appalled, as if she hadn’t known for months. “Those are just disgusting lies. You can’t possibly believe that, can you?” Petyr had to suppress a laugh at her performance.

“I—“ Stark stammered, clearly struggling with whether or not to crush his daughter’s fragile heart.

Sansa’s face crumpled, tears beginning to track down her cheeks. “I’m so scared, Dad.”

“Oh, honey, come here.” Stark pulled her into his embrace. Her manipulation of her father was masterful, effortless, and not a little arousing.

“Promise me you won’t do it,” Sansa pleaded desperately into Ned’s shoulder, her voice muffled.

Stark sighed in defeat. “I promise, darling.”

Petyr met her gaze over her father’s shoulder with a mixture of pride and hunger, and— _oh fuck—_ the self-satisfied twist of her lips under the crocodile tears had him harder than was strictly prudent under the circumstances. He swallowed, adjusted himself discreetly, and schooled his expression to neutrality, but knew she’d noticed from the slight widening of her grin before she pulled away from Ned.

“Now what?” Stark turned to Petyr in expectation.

He raised an eyebrow. “You need to go out there, denounce Stannis’s accusations and pledge your undying support and that of all your men to Joffrey.”

 Sansa nodded eagerly. Ned’s face soured as if Petyr had suggested he suck the boy off, swallow it gratefully, thank him and beg for more, which, he supposed, was not entirely inaccurate. “Fine,” Stark muttered. “We’d best be getting back before it starts. Sansa, you should let Jory take you home.”

“I can’t, I have to be with Joffrey.” Ned started to argue but Sansa shook her head firmly. “I have to. It’s ok, dad, I’ll be fine.” She hugged and kissed her father before turning to Petyr.

“Thank you, Mr. Baelish.” Unexpectedly, she lightly placed a graceful hand on his upper arm and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

He had to forcibly tamp down his normal reaction to her touch even as he felt every fiber of his being reach for her. “Of course, my lady,” he replied, overcompensating with formality to hide the fact that all he wanted to do was bury his fingers, his face, his cock— _whatever she wanted—_ between her legs and stay there for the foreseeable future. She knew he would see through her efforts to provoke him, but, if anything, it made the power play even more effective. He inhaled her scent as she passed by him to leave the room, eyes following her almost against his will. Stark grabbed him suddenly by his tie, pulling it tight even as he shoved Baelish against the wall— _again? This is getting ridiculous, not to mention repetitive_ —and he felt something sharp dig into his chest beneath the elbow grinding into him.

“Littlefinger, if I ever catch you anywhere near my daughter again, I’ll rip your balls off with that fucking pin and put it through both your eyes.”

Stark let him go unceremoniously; Petyr slumped a bit against the cold stone and loosened his constrictive tie. He rubbed his doubly tender throat, coughing. Gingerly, he felt the back of his head and his hand came away bloody. Littlefinger watched the taller man follow Sansa into the hall with open malice. When this was all over he was going to find a way to fuck Sansa where Ned Stark could hear just how much his daughter loved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been following this story. I'm hoping to update it regularly. As always, comments and constructive criticism are very much welcomed. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Soon spreads the dismal shade_  
>  _Of Mystery over his head;_  
>  _And the Catterpillar and Fly,_  
>  _Feed on the Mystery._  
>  William Blake, _The Human Abstract ___

Sansa hurried through the corridors to the appointed room, thankfully not running into anyone who would question what she was doing wandering around the Red Keep by herself. She tempered the thrill of victory she’d shared with Petyr, replacing it with an expression worthy of brainless lost waif. Perhaps she shouldn’t have tortured him like that in front of her father, but he’d made it too easy. Besides, he took every opportunity to do the same to her, the dirty bugger, so a little payback had been in order. She slipped into the antechamber as quietly as she could. Fortunately, it seemed she wasn’t too late; Joffrey and his family were still there, in various states of anxiety. Tywin reclined at ease at the head of the ancient stone table, blithely ignoring the “DO NOT SIT” signs draped over all the antique chairs. Cersei, too, was posed elegantly in her seat next to him, a glass of something red in her hand. Joffrey paced back and forth by the stained glass windows with the piece of paper he’d been examining all night. Tommen and Myrcella sat quietly in a corner, their expressions still full of grief.  She saw Sandor Clegane in her peripheral vision leaning against the wall behind her but didn’t make eye contact with him. Joffrey noticed her entrance first. “Where the fuck have you been?” he asked with disdain.

She regarded him with the wariness of a whipped dog. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace, I got lost.”

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more stupid,” he sneered.  _ I could say the same for you.  _ She swallowed the retort behind a helpless apologetic look.

She noticed Lord Tywin was examining her with rather more attention than he normally did, and felt like she was being dissected under his gaze. Cersei too gave her a contemptuous glare over her rapidly disappearing wine. Fortuitously, Barristan Selmy forestalled their uncomfortable scrutiny, wearing the white and gold uniform of the King’s Guard like it was a second skin, ceremonial sword slung at his hip as he strode into the room behind her. He bowed to Joffrey. “It’s time, Your Grace.”

Joffrey nodded back, his attention now refocused on the leaves of paper he held in a tight grip. Tywin stood smoothly, followed by his daughter’s languid stretch, carelessly handing her now-empty glass to a nearby servant. Tywin clapped a heavy hand on Joffrey’s shoulder in a way that was nearly affectionate. “You know what to do?”

“Yes, grandfather.” Joffrey’s eyes reflected pride in the rare gesture of approval. 

“Bring honor to your family, my boy.” Tywin gifted him with a smile that seemed forced and unpracticed to Sansa but Joffrey clung to as if it were a precious treasure.

Cersei approached her son with an expression of adoration, kissing him on the cheek. “Your father would be so proud, my darling.” 

The queen was a loathsome creature, but her one redeeming trait was her genuine love for her children, Sansa reluctantly admitted, even if one of them was an abomination she’d struggle to call human. Sansa trailed Cersei and her father dutifully out of a separate door which would take them to their assigned spots at the very fore of the throne room without having to parade past the gathered crowds. She made sure to lag behind Tommen and Myrcella, her subordinate place clearly demarcated. She saw the Hound give her one final inscrutable look before following Joffrey toward the grand entrance from which the procession would begin, but she again avoided his stare.

As they entered the throne room, she could feel a mood of subdued anxiety and uncertainty. The mutterings and susurrations died out as the queen took her place at the foot of the dais, shadowed by her father and uncle, a protective hand on the shoulders of her younger children standing in front of her. Sansa edged toward the periphery, which gave her a better view of the room. She swept her gaze over the crowd in its finery; she saw Petyr by the rest of the small council—minus her father—opposite her. His eyes flashed briefly at her before he recovered his expressionless mien. She would have to remember to ask him what happened to the tablet she’d seen broken on the floor. Margaery and Mace Tyrell stood in the first row behind them strategically. Loras and his husband were notably absent, however. Soldiers lined the red-carpeted middle aisle path to the Iron Throne, their automatic weapons gleaming in the torch light. Sansa found the contrast jarring, and the gravitas of the ceremony was undercut by the banal glare of the odd exit sign scattered around the room. The stained glass windows cut into the walls were dark; the light of the Seven didn’t shine here this night. 

The ancient doors creaked open at the back of the hall, halting against the stone walls with an echoing bang. The sound of heavy boots thudded toward them before Joffrey appeared in the doorway, somberly flanked by Selmy and the Hound. The bastard boy king strode down the aisle with his entourage at a steady, regal pace, not deigning to look to either side at those he passed. When he reached the raised platform, Joffrey climbed the first few steps up toward the Iron Throne before turning to face the crowd. The members of the Kingsguard minus Jaime Lannister positioned themselves at the base of the dais. Sansa felt a sudden rush of anxiety; she trusted Petyr would corral her father to the best of his ability, but it all hinged on the latter being able to defy his very nature, an undertaking she wasn’t entirely sure he’d be capable of. 

Joffrey’s gaze swept over the crowd as he spoke, his voice carrying well through the otherwise silent room. “Good evening, my friends. I’m sure by now you have all heard the terrible news of my father’s tragic passing. My family thanks you for your support in our time of mourning.” He turned to his mother and siblings to share a look of noble grief. Cersei nodded back gravely. “Only the Crone may know the days granted to us in this life, and my father’s were fewer in number than we would have hoped. My father was a great man, a just and noble king, who lived only to serve his people.”   _ As long as they had big tits or a line of blow,  _ Sansa thought irreverently. “His like will never be seen again.”  _ Good riddance.  _

Joffrey paused for effect, his expression softening from reserved sorrow to contemplation. “And yet, even the Stranger can bring hope; for every ending there follows the beginning of something new, as dawn does the night.” His demeanor and voice grew firm as he continued.  “I stand before you my father’s son; while I cannot hope to be him, I promise you I will strive to continue his legacy and dedicate myself to the welfare of all my people—young and old, rich and poor, highborn and low. I vow to guard our land from the enemies within and without who would destroy us, and ensure the prosperity of our realm for generations to come. I only ask that you have faith in me as your king, and I will make this new day the greatest our land has ever seen.”

The speech was quite good, and had been delivered with more skill than she wanted to give Joffrey credit for. A fraction of the many lessons his publicity-savvy family had tried to get through his thick skull seemed to have stuck. She heard shades of Tyrion’s voice in some of the phrases and suspected he had a hand in it. Joffrey acknowledged the applause and cheers but his attention was now focused on the Hand of the King, standing at the back of the throne room conspicuously. The High Septon waited patiently behind Joffrey next to the Iron Throne. As she made eye contact with her father, she started to suspect he had been staring at her and not Joffrey throughout the speech. The crowd continued the adulation dutifully as the moment stretched on. Joffrey looked over to his mother and grandfather in obvious confusion, but their expressions remained impassive.  _ The only reason he ever won at poker was because everyone he played was too scared to let him lose _ , Sansa reflected with disdain. 

They were all clearly expecting her father to storm to the front to stop the coronation, but Eddard Stark wasn’t following the script. Sansa saw her father turn to look at Petyr, who raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. Her father closed his eyes and dropped his head for a moment before looking up toward the throne, his expression resolute. She prayed silently to the old gods and new like it would help as he marched down the same path Joffrey had, followed by his own men who were no doubt ready to slit his throat at a moment’s notice. The cheers died out at the violation of protocol her father was committing. The Kingsguard shifted, readying themselves to defend the king against the interloper. Her father stopped well short of them, however, before bowing his head slightly. “I beg the pardon of the Crown to speak.”

“You may, Lord Stark.” Joffrey nodded, his expression now eager. He sent Sansa a savage grin which she reacted to openly with only confusion, inwardly gritting her teeth. 

Her father inhaled deeply before speaking. “Your Grace, I considered your father one of my oldest and dearest friends. I grieve for his loss both as my king and the man I considered a brother. The bond between our houses was strengthened by the love my daughter has found with you,” he looked at Sansa briefly with a slight tremor in his voice before turning back to Joffrey, “and if the gods be good, it will only grow more so with time. It saddens me to tell you now of an attempt to sever that bond, a betrayal that threatens the security of the entire kingdom. 

“Your uncle Stannis Baratheon has been spreading vicious lies in an attempt to usurp the throne. I am ashamed to say I entertained them,” her father paused, grimacing, “and would beg your pardon for having done so. I now wish to refute these falsehoods wholeheartedly. Let the High Septon bear witness to what I say.” His expression hardened as his address broadened to encompass all present in the room. “Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne. On my honor, I will bring the traitor to justice in your name. I wanted to be the first to pledge you my support and swear the bonds of fealty, and, if you would grant me the honor, to serve you as I have your father.” 

Her proud father knelt before the counterfeit king, bowing his head in what might outwardly appear to be duty but Sansa knew to be shame. After a heartbeat, the others, including Bolton, dropped to their knees as well. Joffrey looked bewildered, seeking guidance yet again from his mother and grandfather. Sansa saw Tywin give him a terse nod. Cersei’s faintly stiffened posture betrayed her dissatisfaction but her expression never wavered. 

After a few awkward beats, Joffrey recovered his composure. He gestured, “Rise, Lord Stark. The love I bear your daughter would have me pardon your trespasses even if your words had not moved me so.”  _  Like hell.  _ Her father stood, face shuttered, walked through the wary line of the king’s protectors, and grasped the outstretched arm Joffrey offered from his perch several steps above. “I accept your pledge, as my father would have wanted, and welcome you into my service.” His smile was as false as his claim to the throne, a shiny veneer over rotting filth. 

Her father bowed again before retreating several steps to rejoin Bolton and his men, who had also risen at Joffrey’s prompting. Joffrey scanned the room, his voice hardened to steel. “It grieves me to declare my uncle, Lord Stannis Baratheon a traitor to the realm, and all who associate with him likewise forfeit their lives and holdings. We will not let lies and avarice tear our kingdom apart.” He nodded to the conscientiously unfazed High Septon, still standing attentively behind him. At that signal, the Septon retrieved the crown to begin the ceremony proper. 

“By the grace of all the gods…” the holy man intoned, beginning the traditional sermon. It faded into a drone for Sansa as she took the opportunity to survey the room once more. She gave her father a grateful, hopeful smile that he was unable to return. Petyr had been watching her as well, but apparently had no compunction about sending her a subtle smirk before returning his attention to the ceremony. They had succeeded in passing this first hurdle, but Sansa had no doubt there would be more to come. And now they would have to contend with navigating her father’s new role in all this. She noticed the Septon seemed to be reaching the end of his blessings. 

“May the Warrior grant him courage and protect him in these perilous times, may the Smith grant him strength to bear this heavy burden, may She that knows the fate of all men show him the path he must walk and guide him through the dark places which lie ahead. In the light of the seven I proclaim Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.” He placed the aged metal symbol on Joffrey’s brow. “Long may he reign.”

The Septon’s words echoed throughout the room in a chorus of obedient approval chased by applause and cheering. Joffrey took his place on the Iron Throne proud and triumphant to receive them, and Sansa felt pure hatred. His mother stepped forward first to acknowledge the new monarch, followed by the rest of his family. When it was her turn, Joffrey stood to greet her as his intended, stepping down to take her hand. When he was close enough for no one else to see, he glared at her petulantly and crushed her hand in his grip while kissing it before letting her step back to make room for the next supplicant. One by one, the gathered nobility bowed and simpered before the newly crowned king, beginning with the rest of the small council. Sansa let herself be pushed off to the side once more as the masses vied for the attention of their new ruler, eager to prove their own loyalty. After a time, Joffrey retreated to the antechamber with Cersei and Tywin. The conversations continued around her, but Sansa ignored them. She was about to go to her father when he was called into the antechamber to meet with the king. She made eye contact with Petyr again, who merely shrugged. Finding a seat off to the side, she settled in to wait and realized she was still hungry. Maybe there was a vending machine somewhere nearby. She could murder a packet of crisps at this point. 

***********

Littlefinger weighed the possibility of trying to speak to Sansa alone while he awaited his turn to be called into the small council chamber, but regretfully concluded it inadvisable. Hopefully they would have the opportunity to meet later. Watching her sit demurely in a corner, he felt his earlier desire for her flare, competing with the pain throbbing behind his eyes. 

“Baelish.” The high, cultured voice turned pleasurable thoughts sour. 

Ordinarily he would admit to getting some enjoyment out of sparring with the Master of Spies, but his head still felt like Ned Stark was pounding a steady, brutal tattoo over it. He turned to greet the hateful man with a nod. “Varys.” 

“I was afraid you were going to miss all the excitement. I was ever so glad to see you dash back in at the last moment. I do hope there’s nothing wrong?” Varys’s look of mock sympathy grated over already raw nerves. 

He’d known his uncharacteristic behavior would be noticed, but in the moment he hadn’t seen an alternative. Of course his opponent would take advantage of it at his first opportunity. “Merely a personal matter,” he answered dismissively. 

“Your business with the Hand of the King is personal now, how novel. Or does this particular concern lie more with another Stark? Perhaps the one you’ve been leering at since she developed breasts? You certainly do have a type, don’t you?” Varys needled with a raised eyebrow. 

Petyr resisted the entirely natural inclination to glance at said features, needing more effort than he usually did to maintain his concentration.  _ Gods damn that ball-less cunt.  _ “I didn’t think you noticed tits, Varys, on women at least,” he deflected with an insult that was well-worn but still effective. 

“True, I generally do not, but your…attentiveness to them was more than enough for both of us.” Varys’s judgemental expression matched his disapproving tone. 

Littlefinger sneered, “As long as we’re discussing  _ personal interests,  _ I was intrigued to discover your relationship with a particular foreign dignitary was rather more intimate than one would expect, considering his rumored association with certain exiled members of the aristocracy.” He clicked his tongue mockingly. “Whatever your inclinations, you do realize there’s no need to smuggle them in under cover of night anymore? We’re a society of more evolved sensibilities now.” 

The flicker of anger over Varys’s face was brief and subtle, but Petyr had too many years of reading the other man’s expressions to miss it. Perhaps he should have waited to reveal he had that valuable bit of info, but it seemed they were due for a spot of dick waving to reestablish the status quo of mutually assured destruction.  _ Poor choice of words _ , he thought to himself gleefully, and could tell his deepening smirk bothered the other man even more as the eunuch sensed that something amused him but didn’t know why. The spy master opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a guard summoning him to the antechamber. Varys gave him a final knowing glance promising that the matter had not been settled which Baelish returned with a cold smile. Varys’s exit left him the last remaining member of the small council in the room. 

The isolation and insult were petty attempts to rattle him, but he had to admit to feeling a modicum of restlessness. He waited his turn, exchanging calculated pleasantries and flattery with those he deemed useful while inwardly cycling through strategies for the myriad possible scenarios that might yet play out. He checked his phone periodically, but received nothing new of note. Finally, he heard his name called and ventured to the chamber. As he made to enter, Stark walked out, giving him a nod in passing which Baelish returned cooly. He could only hope the idiot had left him something to work with; Petyr was perpetually astounded how infinitely better his daughter was at playing this game. Walking through the door, he immediately noted that the rearrangement of furniture placed him alone on one side of the impressive table, sans chair, with the three Lannisters lined up across from him and the rest of the council standing behind them; it resembled more a firing squad than meeting. Petyr would have scoffed at the bald stab at intimidation if he’d had any margin left for flippancy. Joffrey in the center glared at him sullenly, Cersei to his left wore her characteristic haughty smirk, and on his right, Tywin’s expression was cold and impenetrable, as usual. 

“Baelish, rumor has it that you were architect behind Eddard Stark’s change of heart?” Tywin inquired dispassionately. Glancing behind him, Petyr noted that beneath his censorious expression, the eunuch was radiating smugness, and Pycelle was barely conscious, as usual. 

Petyr nodded respectfully as he answered, “My lord, I was merely trying to ensure the loyalty of the North for my king.”

“A noble aim, to be sure, but a task that nobody asked of you, Littlefinger.” Cersei said contemptuously. “Makes one curious where this sudden benevolence comes from.”

“Lady Stark contacted me; she was concerned that her husband in his deep grief would do something rash.”  _ Would that it were ever otherwise.  _ “I only wished to serve the best interests of the realm in avoiding needless conflict, Your Grace.” It was possible Cat might have sought his aid if she’d known what the buffoon was up to, but he certainly wouldn’t have been her first choice. She’d excised him from her life more neatly than her doomed fiancé had split his chest open. They’d met several times over the years at official functions and social engagements, but nothing more personal than cursory greetings had passed between them, and she seemed to make a concerted effort to avoid having him meet her children until her husband began bringing them to King’s Landing. A wise decision after all, he thought darkly. Not that he would’ve ever done anything to harm Sansa, but he knew Cat’s definition of the word would be very different from his own. 

“No doubt. I’m sure it had nothing whatsoever to do with your… affection for Catelyn Stark. Though I would have thought a widow to be more amenable to courtship.” Cersei smiled in cold amusement.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, regardless of any sentiments I may have, the way to Lady Stark’s bed would never be through her husband’s grave.”

“Did you ever consider that we already knew of Stark’s treachery and had already had things well in order?” Tywin asked with deceptive calm. 

He met the man’s stare evenly. “My apologies, my lord. I was not made aware of any such plans, and—”

“You ruined everything, Littlefinger! Bolton was all ready to—” The king interjected, spitting in his agitation. Joffrey was and would always be by far the weakest cog of Tywin’s carefully constructed machine, eminently capable of bringing the whole enterprise to a grinding halt. Petyr resisted the urge to chuckle. 

“Quiet, Joffrey!” Cersei snapped. 

He sputtered, indignant. “I’m the king, you can’t tell me what to do—”

“Hush, boy, and let the adults speak.” Tywin’s voice never rose above conversational but it cut through the king’s rage, deflating the foolish youth like a punctured balloon. 

Petyr twisted his mouth into the cunning grin they’d expect of him, as if he hadn’t already been damn well aware of Bolton’s treachery. “Please send along my apologies for depriving Lord Bolton of his prize, Your Grace.”

“You’re a clever man, Baelish, and that makes you useful. Take care not to fly too high lest we feel the need to clip those wings. Do not mistake our indulgence for weakness; if Stark as much as flinches, it’ll be your head we go for first.” Tywin’s tone remained even, his expression emotionless but deadly. 

He’d expected such, but it didn’t lighten the burden of dragging the arse’s dead weight around any. “I understand, my lord.”

“Now, you will present a full accounting of the Crown’s finances for the next meeting. And if I get any hint of creativity in your bookkeeping, we’ll find something much less pleasant to occupy your time.”

_ As if you’d have any idea,  _ he sneered inwardly. He bowed again, sensing his dismissal. “You’re bleeding, by the way.” Cersei informed him, absently swirling her ever-present glass of wine. 

Petyr explored the wound at the back of his skull, finding it open and dripping, again. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

One of Tywin’s men approached the table. “My lord, your son says he found a way to accelerate the timeline. With your leave, he can launch the attack tonight.” The old bastard nearly smiled in response. 

_ Fuck the Crone’s decrepit cunt.  _ He wanted to further eavesdrop, but he’d pushed his luck far enough tonight, and there was no telling how much time he had to warn Sansa. He knew the Kingslayer had been sent to deal with Stannis, but he hadn’t expected them to move so soon. He felt off-balance, which he couldn’t entirely attribute to the blows Stark had landed. For a man used to being five steps ahead of everyone else, falling even a half-pace behind was intolerable. He was skilled at tracking legions of pieces and their near-infinite possible moves across the board, but the Starks never stayed where they were put and seemed determined to fling themselves into harm’s way despite his best efforts.  He nearly wished there were fewer of them to be responsible for. Petyr pressed another handkerchief to the back of his head and turned to leave the room. As he approached the door, however, a servant opened it, blocking his path as he addressed the king. “Your Grace, Lady Margaery Tyrell wishes to speak with you at your convenience.”

Baelish turned around to look at Joffrey, who now had a disgustingly eager expression on his ugly thin face. “Send her in, now.”

“Very well, Your Grace.” The servant bowed before leaving the room, presumably to fetch Sansa’s ambitious replacement. At least one thing was going their way, he reflected. Before he could follow the man through the door, however, a most unwelcome voice pulled him back. 

“Baelish.” He rounded on it to see Cersei had been watching the exchange and now eyed him with malice.

“Yes, Your Grace?” He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve this evening. It might have been the time he sent that Braavosi bastard’s wife pieces of her husband’s member inch by inch until she paid the debt he owed. She’d prevaricated enough that he’d been forced to gift her one of the man’s balls before she relented, but then again, he hadn’t had much to work with in the first place. Or perhaps it was when he’d tricked Lord Hutchison into fucking his own chemically dependent daughter in retaliation for the man’s very costly interference. The old bastard had killed himself when he found out, but his whore daughter had barely noticed. It was probably the latter, he decided. 

“As long as you’re the new champion of all things Stark, get that daft little thing back where it belongs.” Cersei motioned through the still-open door to Sansa patiently sitting alone in the throne room. “We wouldn’t want her poor father to worry, would we now?”

Petyr ignored the bolt of ire that slashed through him, instead calculating the precise amount of churlishness he could get away with. He curled his lip accordingly. “Of course, Your Grace; I live to serve.”

Cersei merely smirked into her wine. He gave her one last graceful bow tinged with a hint of sarcasm before finally stepping into the main hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of the dialog were lovingly adapted from the show. Much apologies for the delay in updating, this chapter was a bear to write. I hope it turned out ok. Thanks so much to everyone following this story, and as always, your feedback is much appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Gods of the earth and sea_  
>  _Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree_  
>  _But their search was all in vain:_  
>  _There grows one in the Human Brain_  
>  -William Blake, _The Human Abstract_

Sansa’s boredom had reached new heights while she awaited the mummer’s farce that was Joffrey’s coronation to finally end. The hour had already drawn late and crowd thinned out by the time Petyr had been called into the small council chamber. Her father had tried to take her with him when he left, but had been rebuffed by Lancel informing him that the king still required her presence. For a moment, it appeared he would argue, but Sansa had reassured him with a tired smile. He kissed her on the forehead and told her to call when she needed a ride home, no matter how late it was. She got the impression that he’d been sent on some sort of assignment, but he didn’t mention what it might be. She’d exchanged polite words with the few people who’d approached her, though she’d been mostly left alone. Margaery had come over to talk with her for awhile, catching up on mundane matters while avoiding treacherous subjects, but then excused herself to speak with one of the servants. She saw the man enter the small council chamber and stop in the doorway, and he seemed to have almost run into Petyr trying to go through it. She was too far away to hear the conversation, but saw him turn back twice to speak to someone else in the room before he finally exited. He walked toward her swiftly, and while his face still wore its smiling mask, agitation bled through in his eyes. 

“Miss Stark, I’ve been charged with getting you home safe to your father.” He addressed her neutrally. 

She feigned confusion. “But, the king--”

“Is very busy, and sends his apologies. Your comfort is his utmost priority, so if it pleases you, my lady...” he trailed off with an expectant look. 

Sansa watched Margaery gracefully make her way toward Joffrey, who smiled at Sansa maliciously until the door shut behind her. She could easily guess what “business” he was occupied with, and was only too  happy to leave him to it. She mustered up a show of humiliation at the galling dismissal for anyone who might care to observe them, shame coloring her cheeks, and shied away from Petyr’s proffered assistance to stand as if she were afraid of him. He led her down a side passage, calling for his driver to pick them up by one of the back doors of the keep. She had to put effort into keeping up with him despite her advantage in stature as his pace pushed the boundaries of what qualified as a walk, and he didn't look at or speak to her until they reached the car. He opened the door for her and gestured her inside, sliding quickly into the seat next to her. As soon as the door was shut behind him Petyr put a hand on her arm, looking worried, an uncommon expression for his face to bear. “Sansa, where is your half-brother stationed?”

“Dragonstone, I think. Why?” The disquiet that had been lingering all night flared.

He spoke rapidly, “You need to tell him to get out of there. They’re going to hit Stannis tonight.”

“What?”

“Jaime Lannister and his security forces are planning to attack at any minute.”

She grabbed her phone from her bag and dialed Jon’s mobile number. The phone rang to voicemail, but Sansa hung up and immediately redialed again and again until she finally heard him pick up. Her brother’s groggy, irritated voice was never more welcome to her. “Sansa, do you have any idea what time—”

“Jon, I need you to listen to me and not interrupt. You need to leave Dragonstone right now; the Lannisters have a private army coming to level it.”

“How—“ He sounded baffled, which was understandable but not helpful. 

“ _ Just go,  _ Jon. If you’ve ever trusted me with anything, go now!” She wanted to reach through the phone and shake him. 

“Ok, I will, but--”

“ _ Please!”  _ She implored, not knowing how else to persuade him. She heard him fumble with his phone for a few seconds before the line disconnected. She dropped her own to the seat next to her, at a loss for what to do next. They couldn't afford to warn anyone officially, and her father couldn't be trusted with something so sensitive either. She noticed Petyr had turned the television built into the seat in front of them to the twenty-four hour news station, putting it on mute. There was nothing of note as yet; just repeated footage in memorial of the mayor of King’s Landing playing over and over, the solemn talking heads exchanging the same empty words in between commercial breaks.

Petyr wordlessly offered her a glass of something dark that stung as she threw it back, and she suppressed a cough while handing it to him again to be refilled. All of the sudden the evening’s horrors—of what might have been and what may yet come—hit her at once. She felt her breath hitch and her eyes start to burn. Petyr moved his hand down her arm, and then pulled her into his lap. Mercifully, he stayed silent, merely holding her as she pressed her face into his shoulder and let tears fall. She had no desire to know if he thought this weakness, or hear any false assurances he might try to give her. Gradually, she was able to control her breathing and then swallow the oily gorge of pain and fear down. She noticed her hand perched at the back of his neck was damp, and was puzzled; she’d been crying, but not quite that much. She turned to look at her palm and realized it was alarmingly crimson. 

“You’re bleeding.” She pulled back to face him, concerned.

He looked less surprised than she thought he should. “Shite, again? That keeps opening up.”

She shifted in his lap, kneeling to straddle his leg. She prompted him to turn his head away from her by lightly pushing on his cheek. She gingerly carded through his short dark hair and found a laceration at his occiput--less than two inches in length but deep, its edges irregular, the area around it edematous. “What happened?”

“Your father chose to punctuate his statements by slamming my head into a wall," he said, sourly. "Several times."

“What?” She'd known there was no love lost between them, but hadn't expected her father to physically assault him. 

“I tried to tell you he didn’t like me.” He gave her a disgruntled look. 

She felt guilty but couldn't help but wonder what he might have said to provoke her father’s quick temper. “I’m so sorry, Petyr, we have to get you to a hospital—”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ve been hit in the head before.”

She pursed her lips. “Somehow that makes me more rather than less concerned. Does this happen frequently?”

He shrugged. “There are a lot of idiots.”

She tilted her head, disconcerted. “Petyr, if everyone you meet wants to punch you in the face, at what point do you start to consider the problem may not be them?”

“I refuse to be held responsible for the unevolved sensibilities of the great unwashed,” he rejoined with palpable disdain.

She just huffed at him, peering into his eyes that were a darker green in the dimly lit car. “Look at me.”

“I already am.” He sounded amused. She ignored him and focused on assessing his pupils. They were of equal size, thankfully, but his eyes were glassy in a way that concerned her. 

“Follow my finger,” she ordered. He indulged her but was clearly having trouble focusing; after only a few passes of her hand in front of him he closed his eyes, wincing. 

“If I’d only known of your desire to play doctor earlier we could have had much more fun than this,” he quipped.

She didn’t dignify the comment with a response. “Did that hurt?”

He opened his eyes to give her a sardonic look. “Yes.”

She activated the flashlight on her phone and tried to shine it in his eyes, but he immediately shut them again. “What makes you qualified to do this?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

“My mother’s a nurse and my siblings were very stupid, so I had a lot of practice helping her treat head injuries. Open them, please, just a few more seconds.” He reluctantly did so, and she was reassured to see his pupils reacted equally. He didn't have any of the warning signs of an intracranial bleed, but he certainly wasn't himself. “Are you feeling nauseous? I’m pretty sure you have a concussion.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need--” Petyr halted mid-sentence and went so still she thought he might’ve stopped breathing and stared over her shoulder. She turned around to look at what had captured his attention. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen flashing in ominous red: “EXPLOSIONS AT DRAGONSTONE.” The graphic repeated several times under the still image of Robert Baratheon before a harried news anchor broke the endless memorial loop. Sansa pressed the button on the car door console to unmute it. 

“—at 3:43 am Stormlands time, explosions were reported at Dragonstone, the site of the largest military facility in the country. We have purported cell phone footage from Driftmark coming in now.”

The video was of mediocre quality, shaky and intermittently unfocused--unsurprising considering its source--but conveyed its subject well enough. The hulking form of the modernized castle was silhouetted by the flames licking up and down its exterior, flickering light reflected over dark water, a huge plume of smoke blacking out the night sky above it. After a few seconds, the footage looped, the fires dancing the same random pattern over and over. The anchor’s voice droned on, “We’re getting word that emergency responders are mobilizing, but as of yet no contact has been made with anyone inside the base. We also do not have any details at this time regarding possible causes of the explosions, but we do know Dragonstone is a site of significant ordnance stockpiles--pardon me,” the hiss of dead air hung for a few seconds before the woman’s voice returned with an undercurrent of alarm, “we’re getting reports now of possible gunfire being exchanged--”

Sansa picked up her phone and dialed Jon’s number again in desperation, but call after call yielded no answer until she finally threw it across the car in defeat. It bounced off a seat instead of the hard plastic of the interior, which she would probably be grateful for later. Petyr muted the television once more, putting an inquiring hand on her shoulder. She didn’t look at him, choosing instead to stare out into the murky city streets through the tinted windows. “Just keep driving,” she said, absently. If they left the car, it would be real, and she couldn’t bear to face it just now. 

He muttered something to the driver over the intercom, but she was lost in her own head, fixating on what she might have done differently, if only she’d been able to warn Jon earlier, trying to guess at the likelihood she’d given him enough time to escape...her thoughts chased each other in fruitless, exhausting circles until she felt paralyzed. She shifted her weight to find a more comfortable position in Petyr’s lap and felt his half-hard cock press against her thigh, which he was evidently (and absurdly, as if she wasn’t going to notice) trying to hide as he tilted slightly away from her. She pushed her leg against him again deliberately, and he inhaled sharply. A strange sensation grew from the center of her chest outward, like someone else had slipped into her skin, stretching phantom limbs out within her own. She decided she didn’t want to feel anything at all tonight. The alcohol’s numbing burn started to insulate her from thoughts and feelings that could destroy her, but she needed more. The hand that had been curled against his belly unwound, reaching down to squeeze his cock roughly through his clothing. He grunted, “Sansa...”

She twisted in his lap to face him, hands working to undo his fly, and kissed him when he protested again. He seemed frozen beneath her, for once unsure, hesitant. She took advantage of his discomposure, pushing back from him to slide down to the car’s floor between his legs. She freed his hardening cock and wrapped her lips around it. She felt his hands on her head and at first she thought he might stop her, but he just curled his fingers in her hair. She sucked on the thick, blunt head, letting her teeth graze the sensitive underside, and he bucked involuntarily, groaning curses mixed with her name. She took as much as she could in her mouth, working the considerable remainder with firm strokes. At the first sharp taste of precum on her tongue, however, she felt his grip tighten.

_ “Stop.” _ His hands slid down to grasp her shoulders and he pulled her up to kneel between his knees. “This isn’t, you can’t--you don’t want this…” he stammered apologetically, surely a singular occurrence. 

“Don’t you presume to tell me what I do or don’t want.  If you won’t fuck me, I’ll find someone who will,” she spat at him. She knew she was being irrational, but the fact that he was trying to deny her this last shred of control with all else lost was more than she could stand. She shoved him away in a show of escaping his embrace and reached for the door as if she were somehow serious about opening it while they were still moving. The threat worked, however, as almost immediately she felt his hand lock over hers on the handle. The fury in his eyes burned incandescently hot, so unlike the cold ire that drove him, and she felt dark satisfaction at making him break. He slammed a fist on the intercom button, barking into it, “Pull over to a side street, now!” 

He hauled her to himself roughly, attacking her mouth, her neck, her chest, whatever he could reach with open-mouthed bites. She fought back with equal fervor, scratching her nails over his shoulders through his shirt. He yanked on the zipper of her dress with too much force and she felt it rip from the fabric. He pulled her bodice down, tearing the sleeves. His hands blazed a bruising path up her thighs, wrenching her panties aside to explore the soft flesh beneath with far less care than he usually did, fingers curling harshly within her cunt and pinching her sensitized clit ruthlessly. It felt like lightning ripping through her, and she hardly cared that she was whimpering. They fairly tumbled out of the car when it came to a stop, and she was barely aware of him pushing her backwards down the poorly lit alley they’d pulled up next to. He pressed her into the wall but she bit his lip harshly when he tried to kiss her, drawing blood. He snarled in response, gripping her shoulders tightly to whirl her around to face it instead, and ground his erection into her backside. She shut her eyes, bracing her arms against the rough brick; it felt cold enough to freeze her in place. She felt him lift her dress and tear away what remained of her underwear before driving his cock into her. She cried out, caught on the knife edge between pain and pleasure; she hadn’t been nearly ready for him, and his sudden intrusion  _ hurt.  _ He didn’t give her time to adjust, either, and was deep enough to hit her cervix painfully with each savage thrust, fingers roaming to dig into her hips, her stomach, her breasts. The sound of his flesh hitting hers was raw and obscene, and she felt wonderfully numb in the hollow white between agony and ecstasy. She brought her hand down to rub her clit furiously and was finally rewarded with a cleansing fire that left her mind completely and mercifully blank. 

As she descended from the anesthetic high of her orgasm, the mad impulse gripping her faded as well, and she was left with only icy, bitter reality. She could tell Petyr was close to coming behind her but suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of his seed in her, dripping down her thighs, marking her as unclean. Without warning she turned abruptly, shoving him away from her, and the shocked look on his face would have made her laugh if she hadn’t been dying inside. She collapsed, heedless of the grime layered on the pavement below or the cold seeping through her thin dress. She squeezed her eyes shut against the world outside but it didn’t change the fact that she had most likely killed her brother and just let the man who helped fuck her in an alley. A fist slammed into the wall above her accompanied by a harsh growl before he stepped away, still breathing heavily. She wouldn’t blame him if he left her there, wretched thing that she was.

After an uncertain amount of time, she heard footsteps approach her again. She felt him drape something over her shoulders and his arms surround her. He quietly picked her up with an ease that wouldn't have been expected from his compact physique, arms slung under her knees and around her lower back, and carried her back to the car. He deposited her into the seat with efficiency before taking his own across from her. He knocked on the divider behind him, and the car began to roll away from the curb. She finally opened her eyes; he looked as bruised and broken as she felt, but his face was set in a mask she almost never saw when they were alone. He stared at her, his eyes cold and piercing. “To the Sept then, sweetling?”

“What?” The incongruity broke through the fog wrapped around her brain. 

“To confess your many sins. Or you could get out now and walk there barefoot and naked if you like. Finding a hair shirt this time of night would be a challenge, but there are several shops still open that should have something suitable to flay yourself with for that extra touch of expiation. I don’t have a bell either but I’m sure we’ll make do.” She faced Littlefinger now, not Petyr; the lilting condemnation in words of liquid silver poured like mercury from his lips, poisoning what they touched, in a voice she despised that he hadn’t used with her for months, if not longer. “Or perhaps we should abandon this whole enterprise and send you back to Joffrey to enjoy the hell you so obviously think you deserve.” 

Her fingernails bit deep into her palm. The barbs delivered cruelty with nonchalant precision, and it was times like this when she questioned whether Littlefinger really was a facade Petyr wore or if the reverse was true instead. The malice of his smirk deepened. “Look on the bright side; now that you’ve likely killed one brother, no one will remember to blame you for crippling another.”

His cavalier dismissal of Bran’s suffering pushed her over the edge. She lunged at him, lashing a hand out without conscious thought, but he caught her by the wrist, and smiled. “ _There_ it is, that rage, that fire that consumes, much better to be directed outward than in, yes?” His voice had changed again, softening to the warm familiar rasp that curled around the length of her spine. “As long as we’re allotting culpability, there are many whose scales far outweigh yours, and none of them are so keen on self-flagellation.” His thumb rubbed over her wrist lightly, but his grip was iron, and the rekindled heat of his gaze poured into her. “Make them pay their pound of flesh to balance it first, unless you want to give them the opportunity to sink their teeth in the rest of your family as well. After that, if you still need to work through your guilt and anger, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.” 

She hated him in that moment, but it was mixed with something else she dared not name. She closed the distance between them, bringing her mouth to his once more. He tasted of copper where she’d split his lip open. She grabbed his tie to pull him closer but the noise of pain he made was out of proportion to her light tug and ended in a  cough. She sat back on his knees, giving him a quizzical look, but he just stared at her, breathing deeply. She unknotted the silk, slipping it off of his neck carefully, and undid the first few buttons of his shirt. The dark mottling wrapped around his throat made her gasp. She could guess the source only too well. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

His mouth twisted wryly. “Merely the cost of keeping the company of wolves, it seems.” She frowned then bit her lip, wringing the silk fabric restlessly. “Though if it’s your desire to explore that particular avenue tonight,” he eyed the tie still wrapped around her fingers, “I’m going to insist on some precautions.”

The memories of Joffrey depriving her of air brought her nothing but terror. Petyr’s apparent embrace of that vulnerability, the willingness to surrender control to her was almost unfathomable. Though the more she thought about it, offering his bared throat to her was both submission and manipulation at once; every choice he gave her seemed to push her further away from the person she thought she was and closer to him, making them ever more entwined, bound, inseparable. She shied away from the thought and shook her head, tossing the tie to the side. “Some other time perhaps,” she replied with more ease than she actually felt. 

He hissed as she lightly touched the abused skin of his neck, trailing her hand down to the scar originating just under his clavicle. “Do I get a safe word?” His grin was all teeth.

“Do you need one?” She quirked her lips. 

“That depends; are you going to give me permission to come this time?” he baited her, cocking an eyebrow.

She flushed. “Shut up.”

“Yes, mistress--”

She covered his mouth with hers just to get him to  _ stop fucking talking _ . He still managed to chuckle, the sound muffled by her lips, hushing only when her tongue started to explore his mouth. He helped her shrug off his jacket and peel the filthy, tattered dress from chilled skin, and she decided she’d rather see it burned than wear it again. Not even the prospect of having to get out of the car naked changed her mind; she’d figure out an alternative when the time came. She unbuttoned the rest of his shirt but only managed to push it open to reveal the ink wrapping around his shoulders, as he wouldn’t stop touching her long enough to remove it entirely. He unhooked her bra and drew his mouth to her breast, his tongue soothing that which his teeth had bruised earlier. He pulled her closer, hands smoothing over the tender places at her hips where he’d gripped her hard enough to bruise and traveling down to knead her ass with fingers gently exploring the cleft between. He let her take the initiative as she carefully slid down, seating his cock inside her at her own pace. He also waited for her to decide to move, and when she did the rhythm they set was slow and sweet in sharp contrast to their prior encounter. She felt quite sore from his earlier brutality but soon found an angle that subdued pain beneath pleasure. The sway of the car, the hum of the engine, the rumble of tires rolling over pavement fell away from conscious thought. When her eyes drifted closed unbidden she heard him growl.  _ “No.” _ His left hand relinquished its hold on her buttocks to cradle her jaw, fingers slipping through her unbound hair. “Look at me.”

It didn’t take long before she felt his thrusts become more urgent, his cock thickening within her. He gasped, “Sansa, are you--”

His eyes were bright, wild, and pleading; he looked at her as if she could shatter him, as if he _ wanted _ her to. She matched his pace with her own, flexing her muscles around his cock rhythmically. She gasped; “It’s ok; let go for me, Petyr.” 

He let out what could best be described as a strangled whine as he shuddered and pulsed within her, beneath her. The mere thought that she’d been able to pull that sound from him brought her to her own peak unexpectedly, pleasure rolling through her body in waves that grounded rather than numbed, connecting them in a way that was glorious and terrifying. She rested her forehead on his, their breath mingling. It was strange sitting naked in his lap in a car with him practically still fully clothed, but she didn’t feel as uncomfortable as she might have thought. She winced and shifted as his softening cock slipped out of her, the mess of their joining pooled in his lap. Petyr gathered her closer against his chest, leaning to retrieve his discarded jacket, and wrapping it around her once more. She nestled her head on his shoulder, careful to avoid aggravating the bruises on his neck. Sweat and blood now colored the notes of his cologne, but it seemed appropriate. She felt his lips press against her temple, trailing back to her ear. “If he’s alive, we’ll find him.”

“If not…” She didn’t, couldn’t finish the thought. The pain and fear still sat in her chest, wrapping cold tendrils tight around her heart, but she forced her lungs to expand around the pressure with each breath. 

He pressed the button on the console. “Take us back to the club.”

“Yes, sir.” 

She hoped the driver hadn’t been privy to everything that had passed between them, but figured Petyr’s employees were probably used to ignoring any number of sordid activities. They settled into a comfortable silence, his hand rubbing her back gently. They must have been driving in circles, for it wasn’t long before she felt the car turn and slow to a stop. Petyr helped her into the seat next to him, fixing his clothing as best as he could before opening the car door just wide enough to slip out. She refastened her bra, but decided her underwear was a lost cause. She buttoned the suit jacket closed; it wouldn't do much to preserve her modesty but it was warmer than nothing, at the very least. She heard him dismiss the driver and what she presumed to be the others present in the garage as she slipped her shoes back on. He opened the door all the way and offered her a hand to assist her exit. Though they were inside, the chill made her hurry to the elevator, pressed into his side with an arm around her. They met no one else on the way to Petyr’s flat, which was a relief and surely not coincidence. When they reached his rooms, she went immediately for the shower, turning on the hot water just shy of scalding. He joined her shortly after. They helped wash the filth of the night off each other with unhurried motions, and when she finally felt the heat reach her bones, she shut off the tap and stepped out. After drying off and bundling herself in the warmest clothes she could find, she finally cajoled him into letting her clean and dress the wound on his head, though he complained the bandaging was unnecessary and, furthermore, made him look like a twat. 

She wasn’t about to tolerate that vain bit of nonsense. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to hold you down and sew it back together. If it’s still bleeding tomorrow, we’re going to the hospital.”

He grumbled some more on principle alone before relenting, and followed her to bed with much less complaint. She settled into him with her head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her. She had no doubt she was going to get a call from some member of her family soon telling her what she already knew, but until that dreaded moment she needed to take what rest she could. As she finally relaxed, soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of Petyr’s chest, she tried to block out the images of Dragonstone aflame, but her dreams were tainted by fire and blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep this chapter from tripping over into OOC melodrama, so much apologies if I didn't entirely succeed. Thanks to everyone for reading and leaving very kind comments, which are always much appreciated.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long night draws to an end but the dawn casts fallout in unforgiving light.

An insistent buzzing noise cut through the pleasant fog of sleep. Sansa struggled to wrench her eyes open to look at her phone charging on the nightstand.  It seemed like only minutes had passed since she’d closed them, which was egregiously unfair. She felt more than heard Petyr grumble in protest beneath her as she made stiff, zombie-like motions to answer it. She ached all over and her stomach objected to the sudden movement with a lurch; she couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol, lack of sleep, or dread. Pulling the vibrating device toward her she squinted at the screen, bright in the predawn shadow of the room.

 _Oh gods, Arya…_ She’d been so selfish she hadn’t even spared a thought to how this would affect her sister. As much as Sansa treasured her repaired relationship with Jon, Arya had practically attached herself to him from birth. Petyr propped himself up on his side and reached out a hand, silently offering to take it for her. Sansa appreciated the gesture but couldn’t see any way it would be productive, and just shook her head. She took a moment to steel herself before pushing the button to answer it.

“Hello?” For a moment, silence was the only reply. “Arya?” She heard her sister inhale shakily. “Arya, if this is your idea of a joke--”

“It’s Jon.” Arya’s breath hitched. “They attacked Dragonstone, and he--” Her sister, the girl who at eight years old kicked the ever-loving shit out of a bully twice her size for picking on smaller children, at ten had laughed through getting twenty stitches in her leg and showed off the ensuing scar like a badge of honor, and at twelve hadn’t told anyone she’d broken her arm for a good half hour because she didn’t want to miss the rest of the rugby match, by far the toughest person she’d ever met, was crying. Sansa had no idea how to help her.

Petyr placed a supportive hand on her back and was rubbing soft circles through the flannel of her shirt. She swallowed hard. “Is he dead?”

She heard Arya catch her breath. “No one knows. They’re not letting anyone on or off the island.” Her sister’s voice was steadier than it had been, but she could hear the tremors underneath.

“Where’s Dad?” Sansa was surprised she hadn’t gotten the call from her father instead, especially considering the debacle of the coronation the night before.

“I dunno. He left a few minutes ago. I think he’s going to try to find him. He took Jory and Alyn with him.”

She didn’t know what her father hoped to accomplish at Dragonstone, but understood why he was trying; Eddard Stark would do anything for his children. He may have intended to travel to the base anyway, considering his vow to deliver Stannis to Joffrey, but now it was a bitter irony that he may be retrieving his son’s corpse instead. “Who’s at the house now?”

“He put Hallis in charge. Wyl and Heward are here too. The others are taking shifts.”

That made her feel a bit better. “Did you talk to Mum yet?”

“Yeah, she called right after he left. Everything’s fine up there but they can’t leave Winterfell. They declared a state of emergency and all transport has shut down.”

Sansa grimaced “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Arya was silent for a moment before asking, “Where are you?”

“I’m at a friend’s house. I’ll be home soon.” She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her sister alone right now.

“Ok. I’ll see you then.”

“Arya?” Sansa spoke quickly before her sister could hang up the phone.  

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” They didn’t say the words nearly enough, as there was little opportunity to drop them into the middle of their endless bickering.

Arya held her breath for a half-second, then murmured softly in reply, “Love you too.”

She waited to put the phone down until she heard the beeps indicating the call ended. She sighed, not really wanting to get up but knowing she must. Petyr shifted behind her, hands drawing around her waist to pull her back into his chest. “I’ll drive you,” he murmured into her ear.

She shook her head. “My father may not be home but I really don’t think that’s the best idea. I can get a cab.”

“Nonsense.” He trailed light kisses down her neck in between words and the rasp of his beard tickled. “I was supposed to do it anyway.”

She turned to glance at him over her shoulder. “Yeah, several hours ago. You weren’t supposed to take a detour for a shag. Besides, your vehicles tend to be a bit conspicuous.”

He looked affronted even as his hands settled on her abdomen. “Do you really think I’m that careless? We’ll take my cab.”

She turned in his embrace to look at him square on. “ _You_ own a cab?” She could think of few things more plebian and as such more unlikely for him to possess considering his propensity for sprinting in the other direction of anything that even hinted at his lowborn origins.

“Of course. It’s nearly the least threatening car available. Very handy for acquiring targets; no one thinks twice about getting in one.” He quirked up the corner of his mouth in amusement.

Against her better judgement, she bit. “What’s the least threatening then?”

His smirk widened. “A Prius.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Never trust a man in an aggressively sensible car?”

“Precisely. No one expects to be murdered by a twat driving a hybrid,” he drawled slyly. He had the oddest habit of saying the most irksome things out of the side of his mouth as if the sneer he spoke through was preparing to flee to escape the fury his words often incited. She wondered if anyone told him it made him more punchable rather than less.

“You’ve killed people in a Prius?” she asked, dubious.

“Not in one, no, but in close proximity to, certainly. Cleaning the upholstery would be far too much work. Much easier to wash down the outside. It’s more spacious than you’d expect as well.” His eyes danced in amusement, the crinkles at the edges deepening in a manner she found simultaneously irritating and attractive.

“Right.” She still couldn’t tell if he was joking, but it was certainly the most surreal conversation she’d had in awhile. And that was saying something where he was concerned. She traced his clavicles inward toward his sternum, fingers gently playing over the bruised skin of his throat. Fortunately, there didn’t appear to be much swelling present. Petyr leaned into her touch, pressing his mouth to hers with a contented hum. Far sooner than she would have preferred, she reluctantly pulled back from him. “We should go.”

“Come on then, we’ll get breakfast on the way.” He tried to run a hand through sleep-mussed hair but encountered the bandage still wrapped around his head. He frowned, tugging at it experimentally.

She lightly swatted his hand away. “Leave it, I still need to make sure it’s not bleeding.”

He gave her a surly look but let it be for the moment, watching her roll out of bed before following her. She pulled a set of clothes from one of the dressers and tossed it on the bed behind her so he could access his own drawers beneath hers. She slipped into the bathroom before him to freshen up, noting that he’d cannily started to move her toiletries into the cabinet beside his own as if for the sake of convenience alone. She said nothing though as he took his place at the sink next to her, watching as he appraised his own battered image in the mirror out of the corner of her eye, probing the split in his lip with his tongue. She was entertained by his display of vanity but conceded that she wasn’t fairing much better; she had to apply concealer to the bruise on her face, and Petyr’s enthusiastic marking of her neck and shoulders necessitated a high collar to match his. Finishing her morning ablutions, she padded back into the bedroom to start dressing.

She stripped off the pajamas she’d been wearing and started to pull on the casual outfit she’d chosen. When she picked up the folded shirt something slipped out of it to land with a light ‘thump’ on the bed. It was a small, intricately carved wolf of what looked like ivory and onyx, hung on a simple silver chain. It was lovely and thoughtful and nearly brought her to tears in her shamefully vulnerable state. In the beginning she’d soundly rejected gifts of this sort from him. She had already been reduced to a fuckable mannequin for Joffrey, dehumanized into serving as yet another prop to display his wealth and power, and had no desire to repeat the experience with another man. She gradually discovered that Petyr, however, was entirely different; he put a lot of effort into finding things she actually liked and took pleasure in her enjoyment of wearing them. Idiosyncratically, he bought her ludicrously expensive clothing and jewelry, but never gave anything to her directly; instead, he’d surreptitiously slip items into the steadily growing collection of belongings she kept at his residences, or, as he'd just done, casually leave them for her to find when she was getting dressed. Wisely, he’d hidden the fact that he’d already acquired several wardrobes worth of clothing intended for her before they even slept together, which, considering how unsettled she’d been by one outfit that first night, likely would’ve prompted her to lock herself in his bathroom and call the police.

Last night had demonstrated that (as she’d suspected)  he had a possessive streak a mile wide. Her relationship with Joffrey never seemed to bother him, as he knew it was something she despised, but her threat to seek out the attentions of another of her own volition had incited a rage in him that bordered on deadly, looking back on it. She didn’t believe he would actually hurt her, but she had a feeling the same couldn’t be said for whatever unfortunate soul she chose over him. Then again, she’d known he was a dangerous man going in, and accepted that she’d have to deal with the implications of that eventually. She purposefully hadn't asked what other relationships he might have been in when they'd started. There was no evidence of any female presence but her own in either of his flats, and she’d never seen him bring any women to social engagements, but that didn’t preclude him having made other arrangements. They might have to have that discussion if only to re-establish boundaries he seemed constitutionally incapable of keeping.

She fastened the chain around her neck, tracing the delicate curves and edges of the wolf pendant with her thumb once more before tucking it beneath her shirt. She knew he’d notice her wearing it, as he seemed to pay attention to everything about her to an obsessive level of detail that felt claustrophobic at times but had somehow become endearing in a twisted, unhealthy way.

She finished dressing and rejoined him in the toilet, taking the opportunity to check his head wound while he shaved. When she unwrapped it, she was gladdened to see it had finally stopped bleeding, and the bump underlying it had lessened. She tossed the soiled bandages away and smiled watching him carefully shaping his mustache and beard in the mirror. She gave into the impulse to wrap her arms around him, resting her cheek on his bare shoulder. He started at the unexpected contact, his eyes snapping to hers briefly, before relaxing and continuing to draw the blade over his throat with precise movements. She released him when he was done so that he could rinse his face, and she left him to style his hair while she gathered her things for the trip home. They met at the elevator, and she noticed he’d left his shirt partially unbuttoned and forgone a tie. When they reached the garage, she became aware that the men present were trying to inconspicuously not look at her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Petyr might have said to them. She recognized one of the drivers approaching them but Petyr waved him off as he led her past the car they’d used last night; true to his word, a black cab was parked in a corner she’d never bothered looking at before. She started to open one of the rear doors but he stopped her with a hand over hers. He frowned, looking almost disappointed. “Where are you going?”

“It’s a cab, Petyr. People generally sit in the back,” she answered with a hint of condescension.

He shut it and opened the front passenger door for her instead. “I’ll stop a block before and you can switch.”

Bemused, she shrugged but acquiesced, slipping into the seat next to his. She looked around in interest; it was much cleaner than any cab she’d ever been in. A flash of color on the car’s visor drew her attention. He didn’t stop her from grabbing it, merely watching indulgently. The ID card had a different name beside the scruffy, sullen man in the picture, a perfect cabbie stereotype, but it was undeniably him. “You even got a fake license? I think you're getting a little too into this, Petyr.”

“The name is false but the license is valid.” He sounded unexpectedly defensive.

She gave him an incredulous glance. “I take it back; you're definitely way too invested for it to be just a cover for abducting people. You're proud of this, aren't you?”

“It's considered one of the most difficult exams in Westeros, if not the world.” He retorted haughtily.

She couldn’t suppress a laugh. “You _nerd._ ”

“Says the girl who collects vintage fairy tale books.” He smirked at her.

“They’re actually worth something,” she tried to argue.

He chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure, to other _nerds._ ”

She thwacked him lightly on the arm and he lunged in retaliation, trying to snatch the license back from her, but she held it out just of his reach. “Arthur? Really?” She squinted at the name on the card and then back at him, trying to imagine calling him by it and failing.

“What’s wrong with that?” He looked at her askance.

She snorted. “I guess it’s marginally better than ‘Tim.’ Or ‘Eustace.’ Or--”

He waved a hand in defeat. “Fine, I bow to your superior taste in acceptable nomenclature.”

She felt more triumph than was really justified, but the man never conceded _anything._ “Good. I’m picking our aliases next time.” She handed the license over which he accepted with huff, returning it to its slot above him.

She giggled watching him check the mirrors and adjust the seat. She nearly suggested he put on a tweed cap, but thought he might boot her from the car. As they pulled out of the garage and headed for her parent’s house, however, amusement faded under melancholia once again. Sensing her disquiet, Petyr glanced at her, then cautiously put a hand on her knee, offering comfort in the soothing patterns he drew on it with his fingers. While he took every opportunity to make lecherous advances, she reflected, Petyr was often strangely hesitant with ordinary shows of simple affection. She placed a hand atop his, trying to return the gesture rather than halt his movements. She focused on the interplay between muscle and sinew beneath his skin as they relaxed into silence. She knew they should probably be discussing strategy but neither of them were really capable of handling complex concepts at the moment. Sansa pulled up a news feed on her phone with her other hand. The biggest story was a statement issued by the prime minister an hour ago. She opened one of the videos; footage of Dragonstone ran alongside the man’s solemn visage showing the facility still burning even as helicopters and boats encircled it.

“It grieves me to report that our nation has been betrayed from within. Last night, Army Field Marshall Stannis Baratheon attempted to overthrow the government by force in a military coup. For this act of treason and domestic terrorism, he is hereby declared an enemy of the state. His current whereabouts are unknown, and he should be considered armed and very dangerous." The footage of Dragonstone was replaced by a photo of Stannis in uniform, his habitual scowl firmly in place. "Thanks to the sacrifice of the brave men and women of our armed forces, the attack on the very foundations of our democracy was averted. We grieve for the lives lost, but we will remain strong as a people united. We remain on high alert, however, and for the safety of the public, I have instituted emergency protocols which will remain in effect until further notice.”

The strings pulling at the politician’s limbs to dance at the behest of Tywin Lannister might have been invisible but were no less real for it. She was about to open another video but her phone started to buzz. Her mother was calling. Petyr glanced over at it but turned his attention back to the road without a word. She let it ring a few times before picking up. “Hello?”

“Sansa, are you alright? Where are you?” Her mother’s voice was worried though still very welcome. Petyr’s fingers stilled but his hand didn’t move from her leg.

“I’m ok. I’m on my way home. Margaery let me crash at her place.” She was certain her erstwhile friend would cover for her, as to do any less would bring to light the girl’s own indiscretions.  “Arya just called. Did you talk to Dad?”

“He’s...as well as can be expected,” she said, her voice pained. “He was called away by request of the king, otherwise he would be there with you.”

“Are Bran and Rickon okay?” She could only imagine the latter would be inconsolable.

“I haven’t woken them yet,” her mother confessed, and she didn’t envy her the task. She wished they could be together for this though. It would be easier to bear with her mother’s steady comfort even if she didn’t have the same affection for Jon as the rest of them did. “I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

She noticed Petyr had pulled into a drive-through for food, and turned away so that her mother wouldn’t recognize his voice ordering for them. “I don’t know what to do, Mum,” she admitted, feeling tears gather in her eyes.

“Oh honey, it’s ok, it’ll be ok,” her mother soothed. She could tell it hurt her not to be there though the assurances helped to calm Sansa even as she knew how empty they were.

She controlled her breathing so as not to succumb to lacrima once again. “I wish you were here.”

“Me too, love, me too,” her mother murmured. “Please, Sansa, if there’s anything you need--”

“I’ll let you know,” she reassured her. “I’ll call Robb when I get the chance as well,” Sansa said.

“I’m sure it would make him feel better. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

By the time she hung up, Petyr had pulled around to the second window to retrieve the food. She needed grease and sugar to settle her rebellious stomach, and fortunately he was quite familiar with her preferences and had ordered accordingly. She ignored his eye roll as he passed the artery-clogging bag of food with accompanying syrupy caffeinated drink to her then set his own coffee, likely black, down in the cup holder in the dashboard. She handed him his bagel before digging into her own food, turning on the radio as a distraction. When he was done eating, his hand returned to her knee and remained there until they stopped for her to climb in the back of the cab when they were close to the house.

“I’ll let you know when I find anything out.” Petyr said, glancing at her in the mirror as he pulled up to the curb.

“Ok,” she answered distractedly, suddenly nervous about confronting her sister.

“Sansa.” He twisted around to hold out the jumper she’d left in the front seat between the divider, and when she went to take it, he used her grip on it to pull her in for a brief kiss before letting it go. She trudged up the long, icy walkway to the house, and the door opened for her, revealing Wyl’s welcoming face. She heard Petyr drive off as she stepped inside. She guessed Arya was in the living room from the noise and light of the television emanating from it, and went to join her, depositing her coat and bag in the hall.

Arya was sitting tightly curled on one corner of the couch, but jumped up to greet her when she saw her. Sansa returned her sister’s fierce hug, mumbling into the shorter girl’s hair, “Jon’s tough and smart. If anyone could get out, it would be him.” Her sister’s arms squeezed around her harder and they just stood there for a long while. When they separated, Sansa joined her sister on the couch to watch coverage of the attack. Most of it was useless circular speculation with little further information. She tried calling Robb but only got his voicemail. She was able to get ahold of Talisa who told her he was likely busy at work since they'd called in the entire police force for extra shifts with the state of emergency. She promised to pass on her message to call Sansa back when he was able.

Sansa tried to stay awake to await their father’s return, but felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier as time passed despite the caffeine she’d ingested earlier. Giving into exhaustion, she fled to her bedroom, collapsing on the bed with a sigh. She was nearly asleep when she heard the door open and the soft padding of feet on the carpet approach her. She turned to see Arya had crept into her room and was lying down next to her in the bed. She hadn't done that in years, not since they'd first moved to King’s Landing away from Mum and Bran and Rickon. She offered the other half of the blanket which her sister tucked around herself gratefully, snagging Sansa’s extra pillow in the process.

Sansa dozed off and on for several hours, and sometimes when she woke they spoke of silly, inconsequential things, funny stories about Jon and their other siblings; other times they just lay in silence, grateful to have one another there even if they couldn’t say it. Dimly, she heard her door crack open once again followed by her father’s heavy footsteps. The bed dipped with his weight as he sat next to Sansa, his hand coming to rest its reassuring weight on her shoulder. She turned, sitting up as she did so, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. She melted into his solid form, inhaling the scent which formed some of her earliest memories of piggyback rides, snow forts, and bedtime stories. Not nearly enough time had passed for him to have made it to Dragonstone and back, much less engaged in any sort of search, but she didn’t feel like interrogating him at the moment.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” She couldn’t help but say it even if he would never know what she was apologizing for. He shushed her with comforting words and noises and she let herself cry into his shoulder. She felt Arya move behind her on the bed to fling her arms around them both. The icy grip of her own betrayal prevented her from relaxing completely, but the least she could do was offer what comfort she could to her father and sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap between updates. I'll try to post the next couple chapters more quickly. Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clandestine meeting and an exchange of information, among other things...

"No Sansa, I don’t want you going,” her father said, his rough hewn features set in a familiarly stubborn expression as he munched on half of the large sandwich in front of him. 

“Please Dad, they’re saying it’s safe,” Sansa implored, picking at her own plate. She had to get out of the house or she’d end up committing some sort of felony. The last few days had been a maddening blend of boredom and fear; the list of the dead grew ever longer, and while her brother’s name remained under ‘missing,’ every text, phone call, or knock on the door might bring doom. The ban on travel meant her mother and brothers were stuck at Winterfell, though they were able to communicate by phone frequently. She tried calling Jon as well at random moments, knowing each time it was probably fruitless. Her father was gone for long stretches of time, and when he was home, he smothered his daughters in attention, reluctant to let them out of his sight. He’d also put the house on lockdown, foiling even her escape-artist sister’s attempts to break free. She and Arya had little with which to occupy themselves as school was suspended until further notice, and they’d started to get restless. They watched movies and shows neither paid attention to when they couldn’t stand the news any longer. The only other people around to talk to were the servants, and though she’d been close to Beth when they were younger, they had little in common now. Sansa did what work she could, but much of what she needed was still at her dorm, as she hadn’t anticipated being  sequestered at her father’s for an extended period. She had wanted to get a head start on assignments as knew that she’d likely have little free time when classes resumed. To add to her frustration, Petyr didn’t seem to be getting very far in his own inquiries, though they spoke frequently by text and phone when she could find time alone. The only positive aspect was a lack of summons from Joffrey. She figured he was probably too busy shagging Margaery and pretending he was vital to running the country to bother with her. 

Her father grumbled, “I just don't like the idea of you going there alone. We don't know for sure--”

“What if Jory drives me there and back?” Sansa interrupted as if she’d just thought of the solution and hadn’t been working toward it to pave the way to her father’s acquiescence. 

Her father paused in thought for a bit, and she could practically see when the wheels turning in his head aligned in her favor. “Very well. But to the campus and back only, no other stops. I'll be expecting you,” he said firmly. 

“Thanks, Dad!” Sansa stood quickly, depositing her uneaten portion in the bin and the plate in the sink. 

“Why does she get to leave?” Arya whined with her mouth full of partially chewed food. Sansa didn't stick around to hear the ensuing argument, not wanting to give her father the chance to change his mind. She grabbed her bag and waited by the door for Jory, who shortly appeared with Wyl in tow. Apparently her father decided she needed not one but two bodyguards for a trip to the flat she’d been living in for half the year now with no problems. She sighed inwardly but welcomed the men with a grateful smile. The car ride was quiet, and she enjoyed looking out the window for the familiar journey as a nice change of scenery. 

When they arrived at her building, she hopped out of the car as soon as Wyl pulled them into a parking spot. The men in the front seats made to follow her, but she brushed them off with a shake of her head, saying brightly; “It's all right, I'll be back in a bit. I have to sort some things out.” The plan would be ruined if she couldn't lose them. 

Jory frowned. “Lady Sansa, your father was very specific that we weren't to let you out of our sight.”

“Please Jory? It's…” she let her face redden “...personal stuff.” Jory balked, clearing his throat uncomfortably. He had once had the misfortune of having to accompany her for emergency tampon shopping, and Sansa gambled that he would be discomfited by being confronted with the womanly troubles of his liege lord’s daughter yet again. Evidently, she guessed right as the two men looked at each other, Wyl shrugging in deference to his commander. 

“Besides, it’s a locked campus, and security is good about keeping suspicious people out.” Aside from any she might have invited herself, she added silently. 

Jory’s brow furrowed in unease, but he finally gave in. “Alright. But please call us if you need anything at all, my lady.” 

“I will.” She fairly bounced away from the car toward the building, happy to be outside. The pavement was wet from melting snow; they were getting a reprieve in the form of an unseasonably warm day, and she almost didn’t need a coat. After entering, her footsteps echoed down the eerily deserted halls with only a few lights on to guide her way. Fortunately, her roommate wouldn’t be in, as she’d ascertained through the commiserating texts they had exchanged earlier. When she reached the door to the room she shared with Jeyne, she noticed someone had written ‘class cancelled!’ and drawn a smiley face next to it on their whiteboard. When she opened it, she saw Petyr look up from where he was sitting on the end of her bed, appearing to have been casually perusing the contents of her shelves. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, locking the door behind her. 

He stood, tilting his head with an amused smirk. “You invited me here.”

“So we could talk, not for you to go snooping through my things like a creeper.” She glared at him and crossed her arms, a bit irritated at his presumption. 

“You should have specified,” he returned cheekily, arrogance pouring off him in waves as it always did. 

Despite herself, she tried and failed to stop amusement from softening her irked expression. “Well, now that you’ve had the opportunity for a thorough investigation, what do you think?” She uncrossed her arms to give a sarcastic sweep of them over the dorm.

“That I’m immensely grateful knowing you’re only responsible for half of the decor of this room.” He glanced from the framed antique bookplates and records she’d stolen from her dad adorning the walls over her bed to glare balefully at the saccharine travesty that was Jeyne’s side. He reserved particular ire for the ‘Hang in There’ kitty print and quotations from  _ The Seven Pointed Star _ framing an enormous signed poster of a shirtless Loras Tyrell bearing a toothy grin bright enough to blind casual onlookers, his dark blond hair cascading down in curly perfection that Sansa envied. The teen idol footballer had even drawn hearts next to his looping, elaborate signature. She would never admit to him that her room back at Winterfell had once boasted similar bubbly nonsense, and he didn’t need to know she’d acquired the poster for Jeyne herself. 

She couldn’t resist teasing him, however. “How do you know that’s not my side?” she challenged, gesturing toward the garish display. 

He snorted. “Your name’s all over everything on this one.” He waved a hand over her half of the room. 

So he had been rifling through her belongings after all. She was hardly surprised. “Maybe it’s mine and I made Jeyne hang it over there so it can be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning,” she retorted with exaggerated infatuation.

Petyr looked visibly disgusted at the thought, sneering, “I would dearly hope you have better judgment than that.”

She stalked toward him, lightly stabbing at his belly with an accusing finger, and scoffed, “You should be the last person to risk casting aspersions on my taste in men.” 

He deliberately mistook her aggression for affection and drew her into an embrace. “I admit it was clearly deplorable before me,” he said with a supercilious grin. 

She thwacked him less gently on his puffed-up chest in response but sought to change the subject before he became insufferable. “You said you had news?”

He let her step back slightly but kept his hands at her waist. “The Lannisters called a meeting to boast of their victory and offered details of the attack so we’d all be impressed by how clever they are,” he answered with derision. His expression grew more serious as he continued, “Apparently they set off stores of wildfire to provide cover for Jaime’s private military force to invade.”

“Wildfire?” It was a ludicrously dangerous substance that had been outlawed by international treaty since before she’d been born. The mad king had been obsessed with it, and had massive stockpiles littered about the country that’d required extensive cleanup and disposal after the rebellion. “I thought they destroyed it all.”

“Evidently not. Word has it Tyrion was the mastermind behind that part of the plan.” She was surprised and saddened hearing that Tyrion--the one member of that family she respected and who had been nothing but kind to her--was responsible for such destruction. He saw her frown and brought a hand up to rub at the nape of her neck. “Our friends were quite disappointed Stannis made it out of there alive. Gregor Clegane is still chasing him north it seems.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Do you think my brother managed to warn him?”

He nodded. “It’s likely.”

She dreaded asking but needed to know. “What about Jon?”

Petyr turned from her to retrieve the electronic tablet he’d set on her nightstand, handing it to her with a hint of anticipation. She sat down on the bed before hitting ‘play’ to start the paused video on the screen. She felt Petyr settle in beside her, his shoulder and leg touching hers. 

The time stamped in the corner was about ten minutes after the initial explosions on Dragonstone. The split screen displayed two stone hallways littered with bodies in pools of blood; the left half of the grainy gray video showed what appeared to be Jon dressed in sweats leading a group of five men armed but similarly ill-prepared for battle. Her brother stopped briefly to kneel by one of the bodies, and a heavy-set man about his height moved on ahead of him, wandering around a corner to come into the perpendicular view of the other half of the screen. Suddenly, Jon lunged forward to grab the other man by his collar, hauling him back behind cover just as flashes of gunfire erupted from the other previously empty hallway, shortly followed by black-clad soldiers in paramilitary gear advancing toward them. Jon’s men took up defensive positions against the wall as bullets tore into the stone next to them, kicking up enough dust to start obscuring the security camera’s view. Jon took something from one of the bodies and signalled instructions to the others. 

The heavyset man and another slighter companion backtracked down the hallway they’d come, disappearing into a side door she hadn’t seen at first. The others started to fire blindly around the corner, causing the soldiers closing in on them to seek cover in the otherwise sparse hallway. Jon swung around them quickly to fling something down the hallway which exploded with a flash that blinded the camera for a split second and left heavy smoke in its wake. Her brother and his men used the resulting cover to move into better positions to shoot at their attackers. They held their own exchanging fire but were clearly outgunned by the force thrice their number and in danger of being pinned down as the smoke dissipated. The emboldened soldiers started creeping back down the hallway toward them. Suddenly, the ones at the very back collapsed, felled by an unseen foe. Some of the squad turned to face the new threat while others still focused on Jon’s team, and the precise formation was shattered by confusion. Jon’s group took advantage of the the disorder, and he and his men managed to cut down the remaining soldiers with brutal efficiency. Jon waited until all movement from the enemy force ceased, then ventured around the corner to meet the men he’d sent to flank them. They paused briefly to exchange words before heading down the other hallway. The screen went black when they moved out of sight. The whole exchange took a minute or so, and when it was over she looked up at Petyr, asking, “Is there more?”

He shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, that’s all I’ve been able to recover so far.”

Sansa set the tablet back down on the table and felt something release in her chest. It wasn’t definitive proof Jon was still alive, but at least it offered hope, which was more than she had had for days. She’d run out of tears to shed at the moment. Petyr slid an arm around her shoulders and brought her head to lean against his. “How are you holding up?” He winced a bit at his own cliched words but his tone held nothing but concern.

“It’s been awful. I don’t think my dad has slept since he got the news.” She fidgeted, staring at her interlaced fingers. “We’ve been stuck in that house with nothing to do but think the worst, and it’s driving us collectively mad. Arya and I nearly got in a fist fight over toast this morning.” 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. His hand slipped under her shirt to brush the sensitive skin of her lower back. It was soothing enough to lull her into a comfortable trance until she noticed he’d begun tracing patterns on her neck with his lips and tongue and his other hand started to drift over her thigh. 

She pulled away, wary. “What are you doing?” 

“Trying to take your mind off things,” he answered guilelessly, which she didn’t trust for a second.

She frowned but didn’t stop his hands from wandering further. “Sex isn’t the solution to everything, Petyr.” 

“How will you know until you try?” His incorrigible grin was calculated to be disarming, and she was annoyed with herself that it was working. 

“My father’s men are downstairs waiting,” she protested weakly as he pulled her over to lie on the bed. 

He cocked an eyebrow. “We can invite them up to watch if you really want, but it would complicate matters.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she huffed, tugging on the hair at the back of his head where he was likely still sore from his altercation with her father, but it only seemed to encourage him. 

“I’ve missed you,” he muttered into her neck.

“Horny bastard,” she shot back. She hadn’t meant to imbue the epithet with as much affection as she had. 

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” he asked with a leer as he rolled her back on the pillows against the headboard. 

“No, just an observation,” she smirked back. She lifted her hips so he could slip her jeans and panties down her legs. He kissed his way down her stomach as he did so before diving between her thighs. She let her head fall back, giving into the sensations of his mouth over her. Petyr ground his pelvis into the bed as he ate her out with muffled groans, her hands still kneading through his hair, and brought her to a quick, delicious peak easily. The bedframe squeaked as he crawled back up to position himself between her legs, and he had to steady himself with a hand when the lopsided old mattress tilted them off-balance. 

“This bed is terrible,” he grumbled, freeing his erection as she helped slide his boxers and unbuckled trousers down his legs.

“It came with the room. We can always stop if it bothers you too much.” She sat up as if to leave, but he pressed her back down, pinning her hands above her head. 

She giggled as he growled, nipping at her neck. “Like hell.”

She didn’t want to admit she too had missed this, missed him. Alarmingly, she wasn’t sure when being with Petyr had started to feel like the only time she wasn’t alone. She moaned as he eased himself in her and wrapped her legs around his waist to meet his thrusts. The bed shook ominously, Petyr’s movements uncharacteristically clumsy as he tried to find purchase on its undersized frame. 

“Abominable.” He released her hands to grab at the headboard for leverage, but it cracked and flexed under the force, prompting him to quickly let go. “I’m getting you a new one,” he grunted, frowning.

“I think they’re all designed to be flimsy on purpose as a deterrent.” She let her hands slide over his back, feeling firm muscles flex under the silk fabric they hadn’t bothered to remove. Likewise, his mouth teased at her breasts through her shirt and bra, the sensation dulled by layers of cloth but flavored nicely by its debauched nature. 

“I’ll buy your whole bloody school new furniture then. It’d be a gods damn public service,” he growled.

The absurd image of plaques with ‘Provided By the Petyr Baelish Endowment for the Prevention of Disappointing Sex’ stamped over every headboard on campus popped into her head and made her laugh aloud. He withdrew from her with a sound of dissatisfaction and a disgruntled look. “This isn’t working,” he huffed, his hands tugging on her hips to flip her over. “Get on your knees.” She complied, still snickering as she braced herself on her arms. “Fucking beautiful,” she heard him murmur before licking a broad stripe up the length of her exposed sex. Sensing he did not command her full attention, he slapped her bum playfully, but not even the sudden sting halted her giggle fit as she looked back at him over her shoulder. He met her amused expression with determination, accepting a challenge she hadn’t meant to issue, and slid his cock over her already dripping pussy before entering her once more. Her chortles finally gave way to moans and cries under his renewed efforts. The new angle let him drive himself wonderfully, impossibly deep into her cunt with each stroke, and she rocked back into him with abandon. He had one hand wrapped around her hip for leverage, leaving the other free to slip under her bra to fondle her breasts. 

“Much better,” she said said in between gasps. 

“So glad to have met with your approval,” he returned hoarsely. He sped up and the hand playing with her nipples slipped down to skim over her sex. Pleasure built as a coiling heat once again, bringing her to edge of orgasm, but the erratic movements of his fingers were not quite enough to send her over. She moaned in frustration, twisting to try to get him to focus where she needed, unable to stimulate herself with her weight supported on her arms. He just chuckled, leaning over to bite at her neck. “If you want to come, I’m gonna have to hear my name,” his voice rumbled in her ear. 

Begrudgingly, she muttered it into the pillow beside her head. 

“What was that?” he inquired as casually as he could while panting, his fingers still teasing lightly over her. 

“Petyr!” she growled at him. 

“I still can’t hear you,” he grunted. 

She snarled,  _ “Petyr you sadistic son of a--”  _ The sudden pressure of his fingers  _ finally  _ properly rubbing her clit hurled her over into the abyss. She might have screamed his name, but was too lost in pleasure to care, his liquid heat filling her as he gasped her own brokenly into her ear when he came shortly after. 

She felt Petyr’s weight rest on her back briefly before he pulled her over to settle on her side against him, his fingers still languidly playing between her legs, sending pleasant aftershocks through her core. He nuzzled her hair as he caught his breath. Another preposterous notion regarding his hypothetical charitable endeavors sent her off on a laughing fit once again. It wasn’t that funny, she knew, but the released tension made her giddy after days of oppressive gloom. She felt him huff in annoyance before he flipped her on her back to give her an affronted glare. “What’s it going to take--”

She interrupted him with a kiss, scratching her nails through the gray at his temples to encourage him to open his mouth to her. She couldn’t catch her breath long enough to explain that she wasn’t laughing  _ at _ him exactly, or at least not at his efforts to pleasure her, but he was well on his way to being genuinely upset with her and she needed some method of distracting him. By the time they separated, she’d managed to bring her hysteria down to a polite giggle. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s so damn funny?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. 

She snickered, “The Petyr Baelish Foundation for the Advancement of Perversion and Filth.”

He looked baffled, then exasperated. “You are a vexatiously strange girl.”

“You know you love it.” She met his glare with deliberate nonchalance. 

“I must be mad,” he scoffed, but mirth played at the corners of his mouth. 

“Getting senile in your dotage?” she taunted. 

“Dotage?” He feigned outrage as he pressed a renewed erection against her thigh.

The sound of her phone receiving a message on the nightstand interrupted them. She was initially going to ignore it but then it went off again and again, and the buzzing started to push it precariously toward the edge. She lunged to grab it before it fell. She had a feeling she knew who it was, and had it confirmed when she unlocked the screen--Arya at her most obnoxious was sending her the same text over and over. 

_ Hey-- _

_ Hey-- _

_ Hey-- _

_ Hey-- _

_ Hey-- _

_ Hey-- _

_ Hey-- _

She was going to kill her sister when she got home.  _ Omfg Arya stop it I’m here. What do you want?  _ She felt Petyr’s unhappy stare as he hovered over her. 

_ Dad wanted me to tell you he’s worried that you haven’t checked in with Jory in a while. And that you shouldn’t have needed to check in with him since he should have been with you already. And that the two of you are going to have a talk when you get home... _

Arya was still typing, so Sansa replied quickly to get her to stop the onslaught.  _ Ok I get it. Tell him I’m fine and I’ll be home soon. _

“I’ve got to go before my dad has his men break the door down.” She slid out from underneath him and started pulling her clothes back on. 

Petyr lay back on the bed--unabashedly still pants-less--seeming content to watch her dress and collect her books and notes. “Dunk and Egg getting antsy?” he drawled sardonically. She rushed around stuffing everything she thought she’d need for the next few weeks in her bag just in case, but was having trouble finding the book she knew she would have a paper due on. Petyr noticed her frustration. “What are you looking for?”

“Massey’s Elements of Law Contracts,” she answered distractedly. She heard him finally stand and retrieve his discarded clothing. He leaned around her to reach between the shelving and the wall then brandished her lost textbook triumphantly.

She narrowed her eyes in warning. “Don’t make me regret giving you those keys.”

“I was just trying to be helpful,” he said innocently, not fooling her for a second. 

“Don’t you wonder why no one ever looks forward to needing your assistance?” She threw the remark over her shoulder as she stripped the messed sheets off of the bed, depositing them in the hamper for later cleaning. 

He ignored the dig, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her waist and press against her back. “I have a surprise for you,” he murmured in her ear. 

She turned to give him a skeptical look. “What is it?”

His expression was the height of smugness it only achieved when he hinted at a secret he would refuse to disclose. It appeared with irritating regularity. “It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you.” 

“Am I allowed to know when this intriguing mystery might reveal itself?” she asked wryly, absently playing with the open collar of his shirt. 

“Tonight, if all goes well.” He curled his fingers through the strands of hair that had escaped the messy bun she’d thrown together. 

“I can barely contain my excitement,” she said sarcastically. 

“Trust me, sweetling, it’ll be worth the wait.” His eyes flashed from green to slate and his grin turned bloodthirsty in a way that provoked a not entirely unpleasant shiver as he drew her in for a final kiss before leaving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those following along at home, 'Ruin' takes place in between this chapter and the next. It can be found here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/7872469
> 
> I really appreciate all the support I've gotten with this fic from everyone, so as always, thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Along came a spider, an unwrapped gift, and a self-invited lunch guest...
> 
> Takes place after 'Ruin' for reference.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/7872469
> 
> Warning for references to abuse and sexual assault, no explicit detail.

_ Thud. Thud-thud. Thud. Thud--  _

Her sister was kicking the legs of the chair she was sitting in like a toddler. Sansa dropped her head back to rest against the wall of her father’s not terribly interesting office and sighed, trying to block out the aggravating noise. They’d been stuck in here ever since he had dragged them to the police station on their way to breakfast, claiming to need ‘just five minutes’ after getting a call about a slain officer. That had been several hours ago, and it didn’t seem like he was coming back anytime soon. Sansa felt her patience finally snap. “Seven hells Arya, can you not do that please?” 

“No,” her sister jeered obnoxiously, intensifying the kicking motion. 

“I swear to the gods you’re worse than Rickon sometimes,” Sansa groused. She sat up to glare at her sister ineffectually.  

“Screw this, I’m bored.” Arya jumped up from the chair suddenly and headed for the door. 

Sansa reached for her in alarm, but was too slow. “We’re supposed to stay here—“

Her words fell on deaf ears, as usual, and Arya slipped out to find something else troublesome with which to amuse herself, leaving Sansa alone in her father’s office. Sansa sighed, knowing that she would get an earful from her father for letting her sister wander off if he came back to find her gone. Sansa would have had better odds given the capability of handcuffing Arya to something, though knowing her sister, she probably already had ways of getting out of them. She glanced around the room for what felt like the millionth time. Various awards and diplomas adorned the walls, accompanied by the more personal touches of photos--she regarded the framed picture of her father shaking Robert Baratheon’s hand at his swearing-in ceremony with a jaundiced eye--and the most arresting sight in the room; the ancient Valyrian steel sword of the Stark house mounted by the windows, a jarring anachronism in the sleek modern office. The large wrap-around desk was piled high with files and papers almost burying the computer.  Curiosity got the best of her, and, after checking the door was closed and no one would be able to see, Sansa moved to sit at her father’s desk and log in to his computer. She’d had all of his passwords for awhile now; he kept them in a not-very-secret place in his home office because he frequently forgot them. She clicked through his email and soon found the one she was looking for--the investigating officer had sent her father preliminary crime scene photos of the detective inspector’s murder. 

The first of the set were of the burned out car, verified to be Trant’s from the VIN according to the details of the email. The next were images of the warehouse, including a closeup of the familiar Bolton sigil above its entrance. The remainder revealed Petyr’s gift to her in vivid technicolor; a vile man turned upside down and inside out to hang suspended from the cold metal ceiling, skin peeled away to reveal glistening muscle on bone dripping sanguine onto the concrete floor beneath it. Its unlidded eyes and lipless teeth froze the corpse’s expression in agonal joy, framed by hooks and blades similarly coated red.  She’d seen her father butcher the animals he hunted before, but this was far more unnatural. The body didn’t look real, much less human, and if he hadn’t told her it was Trant she’d have no reason to suspect it. She wondered if Petyr had enjoyed killing him. She didn’t feel as sick as she thought she might have, indeed she was having trouble looking away from it; the macabre sight was oddly captivating. She’d never told Petyr who had been present the only time she’d attempted to report Joffrey for raping her, but he seemed to have found out regardless. 

There had been warning signs of his potential for sadism, certainly, hints in the dismissive malice he displayed with others, particularly those beneath him. He'd also lost his temper with her before, but quickly apologized with ready excuses, and she always chose to brush the incidences off. Sansa cursed herself for ignoring them in her naivety until it was far too late, and a part of her still screamed that she deserved everything she got for being so stupidly naive. 

They’d been at an awful party with people Sansa didn’t care for; she hadn’t wanted to go to in the first place as she had been feeling poorly all day. After only one drink she was completely exhausted and had fled to an unoccupied bedroom of the host’s mansion. Awhile later Joffrey found her and got into the bed with her. At first she welcomed his presence, thinking he meant to comfort her, but gradually his touches grew more amorous than she felt up for in that moment. She tried letting him down gently, but he ignored her hints until she flat out told him she wasn’t in the mood. Her refusal triggered a rage that mutated him into a monstrous stranger with cold eyes and cruel hands. At first she was too shocked by the transformation to be afraid, but when he started ripping at her clothes she fought back until he pulled a knife on her. She tried pleading with him, but it seemed to only goad him on as he forced his way into her body with the blade to her throat. The pain of the violation was matched only by the devastation of realizing Joffrey knew exactly what he was doing and was  _ enjoying  _ it. Afterwards, she had to dress herself as best she could in what remained of her clothing and paste a smile over her terror and shame for the rest of the night, only able to be free of him when he passed out from pills and drink. She snuck out of the house past his bodyguards and took a bus to the station only half-aware of what she was doing, in shock over the betrayal from the boy she thought she loved. Perhaps if she’d called her father directly, the outcome might have been very different. Then again, it might have put her family in even greater danger. 

Upon arriving at the precinct after the uncomfortable bus ride, they’d taken her things and brought her to one of the rooms with a one-way mirror, a choice she found odd being a victim and not a perpetrator. Detectives Allar Deem and Emmon Frey were the initial officers to interview her. They had kept talking in circles for hours, picking apart details in her story until even she was confused and on the verge of doubting it, informed her of the low conviction rate for sexual assault, especially involving intimate partner violence, expressed false concern for the toll testifying would take on her, asked her insulting and entirely irrelevant questions about her sexual practices with and without Joffrey, and all but accused her of trying to blackmail him for personal gain. Finally, she’d demanded to speak with her father and refused to answer any more questions until he was present. The two had given her contemptuous looks before leaving the room. 

She’d sat there in uneasy silence for what felt like hours before another man entered.  He introduced himself as a detective inspector and expressed regret for the behavior of his underlings. Apologetically, he asked to hear her story one more time in her words, and at the end of it, promised to help her file charges against Joffrey. She hadn’t trusted him at first--there was something about the kindness in his eyes that rang false--but let her guard down somewhat at his reassurance. She remembered his next words perfectly; “We’re going to need a signed statement Miss Stark. Are you willing to do that?”

She nodded, and he set a file down in front of her. When she’d opened it, however, instead of a pad of paper she was horrified to see candid photos of her family--her mother sitting at the nurse’s station in the hospital where she worked, Rickon on the swings of his school playground, Bran with his gentle giant of a physical therapist, Jon bundled up in a snowy camp, Robb and Talisa at a restaurant, her father at the Winterfell district station...there were hundreds of them, all displaying in the clearest terms how vulnerable her family was. Trant had a sadistic look about him as he asked whether she would reconsider. She had little option but to do so with her family in the crosshairs. There was nothing she could do in that moment but crawl back to her rapist and reassure his men that she’d be a quiet, obedient little piece of property. He’d proposed not long after, in the presence of both their families, and she’d been forced to accept a glittering symbol of the yoke around her neck with tears of joy. 

She never told a soul, and hadn’t even thought Petyr knew until a month ago when Deem was slain in a drug-bust gone wrong. Two weeks after that Frey accidentally shot himself cleaning his gun while drunk, or at least that’s what the official reports claimed. Petyr had saved his best work for last; Trant’s gleaming crimson corpse forged with Ramsey Bolton’s signature was a beautiful coda to complete the set. She hoped that it--along with the rest of the contents of the shed--would serve to drive a wedge between father and bastard son as well as the turncoat and his new allies. She hazarded a guess that the additional discovery of the mass grave on the Bolton property was at least partially responsible for her father’s delay. 

The sound of someone just outside the door startled her. She stood quickly, shutting off the computer screen and grabbing a framed picture to justify her presence behind her father’s desk. If anyone thought to question her, Jon’s prominence in the photo should give them pause. When the door opened, she looked up to see it was the bald man who had smiled so eerily at her during the wedding. He was dressed in a suit of finer quality than was typical for government officials, and had a pleasant manner which made the hair at the back of her neck stand on end. He stepped almost silently into the room and folded his hands in front of him. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Stark. Forgive me, I don't believe we've been properly introduced.” He bowed slightly, smiling. “My name is Varys, I work with your father.” He didn’t elaborate as to whether he meant in law enforcement or on the king’s small council. Sansa hazarded a guess that it was both. 

“I’m sorry, he isn't here,” she said apologetically, shaking her head. 

“Yes I know, he's a bit busy with the Trant investigation. Awful business, don't you think?”  Varys tutted with a small frown.

Sansa shrugged. “I'm not sure; my father doesn't tell us much.” 

She sensed the man did not believe her, as if he somehow knew what she’d been looking at. His stare was as penetrating as his tone was casual. “Of course not.” 

“I could take a message for him if you like,” she offered, hoping to get him to leave. 

“Thank you, but actually my business here today is with you.”  The man stepped toward her and Sansa resisted the urge to retreat. His expression grew somber. “I wanted to speak with you concerning the very dangerous game you’re playing with a mutual friend of ours.” 

She set the picture back down on the desk, hiding her rising panic behind confusion. “I don't know what you mean.” 

Varys gave her a sympathetic look that she didn’t trust. “I understand the urge to dissemble, it's really the best option available to you, but sadly we don't have as much time as I'd like to talk.” He glanced down for a moment in calculated contemplation before meeting her eyes with an easy smile. “Here's what we’re going to do; I will ignore that you’re pretending to not know what I'm talking about, and in exchange you'll listen to what I have to say. Do we have an agreement?”

Sansa didn’t answer.

“By your silence, I’ll assume that’s a yes.” Varys sighed, looking almost regretful. “You’ve chosen a troublesome sort of bird as an ally. You know I rather admire him, and consider him a friend of sorts. He and I are alike in so many ways. We’ve both had to pull ourselves up out of the muck of our birth, and I can empathize with his need for power and control; I know all too well what it is to do without, and I’d venture to say it’s an experience you yourself have some familiarity with also.” The look he gave her suggested a far greater knowledge of her tribulations than she would have wanted. “But I never forget what he is, or what he’s capable of; the difference between us is I’m not willing to set the whole world afire just to see my enemies burn.” Varys’s expression turned grave, and his eyes bored into hers. “I don’t know what vengeance he has promised you, but he’s set you down a path that leads only to ashes and death. 

“Where do you think this will all end? What will he do with you when he no longer needs you? Wildfire destroys everything in its path, friend and foe alike.” Sansa held back a flinch. “What will become of your family when—not if—they get in his way? Whatever affection he may have for you, or your mother,” he looked at her pointedly, “do you really think he wouldn’t offer you up on a plate in a heartbeat to save his own skin?”

It was nothing she hadn’t considered before or analyzed in detail herself, but hearing it from a stranger re-enforced every doubt and misgiving she had about both their arrangement and relationship. Sansa felt her jaw tighten as she tried to hide the turmoil his words were stirring. “Mr. Varys—”

“Just Varys, please.” His careful grin was back. 

“Varys,” she felt like she was addressing some sort of bizarre pop diva. “You said we were short on time so I would ask you to kindly get to the point.”

The smile turned cold. “I can see why he likes you. Very well. I merely wish to offer you an alternative path, a safer one for you and your family.”

She bristled at the empty promise. “With all due respect, sir, no one can protect anyone.” 

He bowed slightly, his expression controlled. “Well said my lady. You don’t have to give me an answer now, but I implore you to consider it.” He stepped forward to place a card on her father’s desk between them.  “For when you are ready to hear my terms.” He nodded respectfully. “Good day, Miss Stark.”

After the door closed behind him, Sansa leaned over the desk to pick up the card gingerly. It bore a phone number in simple black and white with nothing to reveal the dangerousness of its giver. She shoved it in a side pocket of her bag, turned the computer screen on once more to get rid of any evidence of her snooping, and went back to the chair she’d been wasting away of boredom in all morning. 

She debated whether to tell Petyr or keep the encounter to herself. Ordinarily she wouldn’t hesitate, but Varys’s words had made her question the trust and openness that had developed between them. Even if that had been the spider’s only purpose in confronting her, he’d certainly succeeded, to her dissatisfaction. She decided to hold off on informing him until they met in person. Settling in to wait once more, she decided to try for a nap while she had the opportunity, uncomfortable seat bedamned. A half hour later, a knock on the door startled her awake. After a beat, it opened to reveal the most physically imposing woman she’d ever seen, dressed in a meticulously pressed uniform. The blonde’s mien was professional but not unfriendly. “Miss Stark, I’m Commander Tarth. Your father requested me to find you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Sansa replied politely as she stood. She snuck in a furtive stretch while she followed the woman out of the room. The officer lead her down an unfamiliar hallway to an elevator at the rear of the building. Sansa gave her a inquiring look while they waited for it to arrive.

“Your fathering is trying for a discreet exit, miss. We’re going to meet him in the underground parking lot.” 

When they reached the garage her father was still surrounded by officials carrying mountains of paperwork vying for his attention by the car. Arya was already there as well, talking animatedly to a sharply dressed man with dark curly hair, who seemed to be tolerating it with a smile. When her father spotted Sansa, he extricated himself from the throng around him, promising to return to work after lunch. He ushered a surprisingly reluctant Arya into the car with Sansa following, allowing them finally leave the station. 

***********

They had settled on one of her father’s favorite places, a rustic hole-in-the-wall offering stout Northern cuisine that also served as a good getaway from the scrutiny of the press, who’d evidently been most displeased by her father’s refusal to take questions at the end of his news conference. The clientele was of largely Northern stock as well, judging from the clothing and accents surrounding them, and the decor was dark and pleasantly shabby. It was rather comforting, if not sophisticated, and exuded an atmosphere of home. Their server was new, judging from the nervous way he had addressed her father, but he managed to get their order down eventually. Her father relaxed considerably once the young man brought him his pint of beer, and quietly began answering their questions about the investigation, content edited for surroundings and audience, of course. 

The homey scene was disrupted by an interloper, standing out from the regulars by his manner and appearance as clearly from south of the Neck. Sansa spotted him first, as she’d chosen the seat facing the door. Petyr looked as he usually did, dressed neatly in a black and dark green suit with his signature mockingbird tie pin; nothing betrayed that he’d just skinned a man alive the night before. She shouldn’t have expected otherwise. He approached their table with a smile that drained all the merriment from her father’s face when he saw it. 

“Lord Stark.” He nodded at her father then turned to her, holding out a hand which she made a show of shyness in taking. “It's a pleasure seeing you again Sansa.” Petyr grinned at her, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

“Hello, Mr. Baelish,” she returned cordially. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her father gripping his glass so tightly she half-expected it to shatter in his hand. 

Petyr turned his attention to her sister. “And this must be Arya.” Her sister recoiled with a scowl, practically sitting on her hands to avoid the same fate. Petyr took it in stride, his demeanor unchanged. 

“State your business and be gone, Littlefinger,” her father grunted at him, staring daggers.

“Oh, I’m afraid we have rather a lot to talk about, Lord Stark. May I?” He took the empty seat next to Sansa without waiting for permission. Her father glared at him as if he was threatening to defile her in the middle of the crowded restaurant, but she couldn’t believe even Petyr would be so suicidally bold to tweak a wolf’s nose so soon after feeling its teeth at his throat. She felt Petyr press his leg to hers beneath the table, and had to reconsider that assumption. 

The pimply-faced server came back over to them with an apologetic look to her father. “I’m so sorry, milord, I had no idea you were expecting another guest.” 

Petyr gave the boy an easy smile paired with a dismissive gesture. “It’s fine; I wasn’t sure I’d make it so I told my friends to start without me.”

The skittish waiter gulped, “Would you like time to look at the menu, sir?”

Petyr took the offered slip of paper and scrutinized it with a skeptical eye. “Do you have a wine list?” This was not the place to expect rarified things, a fact Petyr clearly knew. 

The poor youth was at a loss. “Umm...we’ve got red or white?” he ventured, his voice cracking. 

“Spoiled for choice, so difficult to decide,” he hummed in deliberation. He glanced up and met her father’s murderous stare with a smirk. “I’ll take whatever Lord Stark is having, please.” He handed the menu back to the server without looking at him. 

Her father’s lip curled. “You won’t like it, Baelish.”

“You’d be surprised how...adaptable my tastes are, Lord Stark.” Petyr’s smile deepened to an oily grin as his eyes flitted to hers, and Sansa’s mouth tightened in disapproval. Slapping her on the ass while slavering at the mouth might have been more subtle. He was practically begging for another head injury, and her father would be only too happy to oblige. 

The waiter looked from one man to the other in confusion, clearly wanting to be anywhere else at the moment. “Very good, sir.”

After the young man stumbled away from them as quickly as humanly possible, her father spat, “You and I have very different definitions of  _ friend _ , Littlefinger.”

Petyr just grinned, his eyes sharp. “It was more succinct than very reluctant allies.”

“How did you know we were here?” Her father’s expression was sour.

“I have my ways,” Petyr said, smugly mysterious. Sansa had to pretend to choke on her water to cover her snort in response to him taking some kind of nefarious credit for the information she'd given him herself. Arya sent her a funny look for it. 

“Why are you here?” her father grunted. The follow up query  _ And how soon will you leave _ was implied. She was surprised her father didn’t just come out and say it, but he appeared to be trying to restrain himself in such a public setting. Petyr wasn’t helping at all, the prick. 

“As it seems that due to recent events our fates are now unfortunately linked, I thought it wise to meet in order to develop viable strategies for handling the threats jointly facing us,” Petyr drawled smoothly. 

Her father crossed his arms, glowering. “I’d rather you not discuss this in front of my daughters.”

Petyr raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think ignorance will shield them just because they’re children? We both know our mutual enemies have no such scruples.” 

Sansa bristled at being called a child, but Petyr used the cover of placing his napkin in his lap to give her bare knee an apologetic squeeze. He withdrew when the server returned to set his drink--a pint of the heavy dark ale her father preferred--in front of him. The stuff tasted vile to Sansa, but Petyr took a healthy swig without batting an eye. 

“What’s he talking about, Dad?” Arya asked, glancing between the men in suspicion. Petyr sent him a look of expectation, but her father stayed quiet, his expression troubled. The silence stretched uncomfortably before Sansa made the decision to address it herself. 

“Someone tried to have Dad killed at the coronation,” Sansa delivered as if it had been weighing on her since that night. Her father glanced at her in alarm.

“What? Why?” Arya asked, sending her a betrayed look for keeping such an important secret to herself, but Sansa didn’t meet it.

“The Lannisters thought your father would object to Joffrey’s claim, and planned accordingly.” Petyr took advantage of the opening to fill in for her. “Fortunately for all involved, we were able to avoid that unpleasant outcome.” 

“Will my everlasting thanks be enough to see you gone, Littlefinger?” her father finally spoke up, his words rough and bitter. 

Petyr scoffed. “You don’t seriously believe that was the end of things, do you? The noose around your neck may have slackened, but it will remain there as long as the Lannisters question your loyalty.” Petyr took another sip of his drink, for dramatic rather than gustatory reasons, Sansa suspected. “And now it seems I have the privilege of sharing it with you. I value my life, and as such, will do whatever necessary to keep it, even if it requires minding stubborn fools who have little care for their own.”

Sansa jumped in to de-escalate matters. “But maybe if I explained to Joffrey--”

Petyr turned to her with sympathy. “Sadly my dear, I doubt it would make a difference despite his love for you. Tywin holds the real power, and he will not be easily swayed.”

Sansa let her face show confusion and fear, conscious of her father’s concerned eyes on her. 

“You should also know Tywin also ordered the attack on Dragonstone in hopes of eliminating Stannis,” Petyr continued after a moment as a show of good faith. “I understand that your son is still unaccounted for. My condolences.” He sounded sincere, and Sansa gave him credit for putting the effort in. 

The news turned Arya’s expression murderous; it would seem Tywin had now made a small but fierce enemy in her sister. Her father was about to respond when the server returned with their food. Plates of pungent smoked fish that she could barely stomach were placed in front of Petyr and her father, while Arya had chosen chicken and chips, and Sansa a cottage pie. Arya upended the bottle of ketchup over her plate as her attention vacillated between the two men. Sansa dug into her own selection, and found it more than adequate; the meaty filling was flavorful and browned mash crust nicely crispy. Petyr finished chewing and swallowed his first experimental bite of the fish with a neutral expression before asking, “Well?”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “I still don’t trust you.”

Petyr’s grin widened. “That’s fine. It suggests you’re more intelligent than you first appear. Besides, if I was only able to do business with those who trusted me, I’d get very little done indeed.”

Her father’s brow furrowed as he toyed with the fork he’d embedded in the fish in front of him. Sansa knew he was not accustomed to such cynical dealings, but hoped he would be flexible enough to compromise. Finally, he begrudgingly relented. “What are you proposing, Littlefinger?”

“An exchange of information, primarily, and alignment of efforts toward common goals. I would also urge you play the part of a loyal subject for now, deferring retaliation until the time is right.”

“And you’ll decide when that is?” Her father asked bitterly. 

Petyr raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Ideally, we’d determine that together.”

Her father looked resigned. “Right. What else?”

Petyr ate another forkful of his food before answering. “There’s some immediate business we need to address. Bolton is going to be a problem. I need to know everything you tell him, any moves he makes.”

Her father hacked and stabbed at the mushy flesh on his plate with rancor. “Fine.” 

Petyr consumed a few more bites of his food, watching her father fume with obvious enjoyment. He chased it with a swig of ale, then said, “One final thing. It seems very unlikely for Stannis to have passed through the North without help. You don’t happen to know anything about that, do you?” He gave her father a searching look, not masking his pleasure in watching him squirm. 

Her father was a terrible liar, and both his awkward body language and unconvincing words betrayed him as he mumbled, “No idea.” 

“I see,” Petyr intoned, clearly not believing a word. Sansa made a mental note to discuss it with him later. He let the matter drop, however, and merely inquired, “Do we have a deal then?”

Her father muttered but nodded.

Petyr chuckled. “Don’t look so glum, Lord Stark. This has the potential to benefit us both.”

“Not all of us are as used to licking Tywin Lannister’s boots as you are,” her father snapped. 

Petyr’s expression twisted in mock sympathy. “You’ll have to develop a taste for it quickly, then.”

“Is there anything else?” her father spat sullenly. 

“Not at the moment, I suppose.” Petyr appraised the remains of his meal as if it had done him some sort of personal injury. He ran his fingers along the inside of her thigh before retrieving his napkin from his lap and tossing it on the table next to his plate. 

Her father brandished his knife at Petyr. “If you play me false, Littlefinger--”

“I get threatened so often, best make it memorable,” Petyr sneered. Her father just fumed. Petyr smiled at the lack of retort. “I’ll contact you when I have more information. I expect the same courtesy, Lord Stark.” He stood, giving her father one final aggravating smirk, and nodded to Arya, “Miss Stark.” He then turned to Sansa. “I hope to see you again soon, my dear.” He leant in quickly to place a kiss on her cheek, and she half-expected her father to overturn the table in fury. He carelessly flicked a stack of bills onto the table before striding away.

“Littlefinger! I don’t want your fucking money--” her father sputtered, shaking the table with a pound of his fists. Sansa put a hand on his arm, very aware of the attention the outburst was garnering from those around them. 

“Please Dad, it’s not worth it,” she soothed. Her father grumbled some more before returning to his meal. She hadn’t seen anyone eat angrily before, but there was little else fit to describe the way he was attacking his plate. She looked across the table at Arya, who shrugged back, and they went back to consuming their own portions as well. A short time later, her phone buzzed with a text from Petyr:  _ Alleyway.  _

She waited a few minutes to avoid suspicion before excusing herself to the toilets. Sansa lingered just outside the door to the lav until the hallway was clear before slipping through the unlocked rear entrance of the restaurant. Petyr was leaning against the wall opposite the dumpsters. 

“Are you sure it’s me you wanted to see? You were having such a good time flirting with my father in there,” Sansa asked sardonically. 

“Tempting, but I doubt his legs look half as good in that skirt.” His eyes swept over her in blatant appraisal. He pushed away from the wall and moved toward her, but something in her response stopped him. “What is it?”

She realized her expression had sobered without conscious thought. “I saw the body.”

“And?” he queried, head cocked to the side unconsciously. As gleefully as he’d described to her what he’d done last night, Petyr looked oddly unsure now, as if he thought she might flee after being confronted with evidence of the brutality he was capable of. He stood very still as she stepped forward slowly. Fearing him had never been a problem for her, and, though that in itself might be folly, it was certainly not a factor in what drew her to him now. She closed the distance between them to a hand's breadth, eyes roving over the sharp features of his face before meeting his own, shaded dark with unexpected vulnerability. She whispered “thank you” as she leaned in to press her lips to his, and almost immediately his arms came around her to crush her to himself. Fortunately he tasted of mint rather than fish and beer, and she absently marvelled at how much gum he must’ve chewed to manage it. Reluctantly she pulled away shortly after, aware of the limited time they had. She kept a hold on his shoulders as his hands settled on her waist. 

“Varys ambushed me in my father’s office,” she reluctantly admitted. 

He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? What did our Master of Spies want?”

“To offer me a ‘safer path’,” she paraphrased, showing him the card she’d slipped out of her bag. 

He looked down at it then back up, his eyes glinting. “Safer than me?”

She pursed her lips. “That seemed to be the idea.”

“Hmm. And what did you tell him?” Petyr drew her closer with the hands gripping her hips.

“Nothing he wanted to hear,” Sansa answered.

“My clever girl,” Petyr murmured, raising a hand to cradle her jaw, drawing his thumb gently over her cheek. 

Sansa let herself lean into the caress, but asked, “What should we do?” The plural pronoun slipped out with little conscious thought. “He clearly knows something.”

“What Varys knows and what he can safely reveal are two entirely different things.” He hummed, ruminating for a few beats as his hand slipped to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. “I’ll work on gathering all the incriminating information I have on him in case we need it. His connections to the Targaryen girl are certainly a liability.”

“What should I do?” Sansa asked. 

“Wait a bit then call him, see what he has to offer. He may yet tip his hand,” Petyr answered, seemingly less worried than she was about the threat. She hoped he wasn’t underestimating the man; Petyr was cunning, but his arrogance tended to be his own weakness. 

Sansa gave him a dubious look, but nodded. “I’ve got to go before my father sends Arya after me.”

“If you must,” he murmured, kissing her again before letting her go. She snuck back into the restaurant and took her seat next to her now much calmer father nonchalantly. Arya gave her another suspicious look while munching on her chips, but Sansa kept her head down, ostensibly focused on her food. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some girls wanna hold your hand_   
>  _And some girls like to pray_   
>  _Well my girl takes her drinks_   
>  _With dust and rusty razor blades_   
>  _As I lie between these covers_   
>  _I wanna tell her that I love it_   
>  _When she chokes me in the_   
>  _Backseat of her riverboat 'cause_
> 
> _She's my man_  
>  _And we got all the balls we need_  
>  _When you taste that pavement_  
>  _You're amazed_  
>  _She smells your sympathy_  
>  _So bye bye ladies_  
>  _May the best queen hold the crown_  
>  _For the most bush sold on the levee_  
>  _My my, how word gets around_  
>  _She strangles for a good time_  
>  _And she kills my self-control_  
>  _She's my man, don't be too sad sonny_  
>  _'Cause she'll never be your woman no more_  
>  -The Scissor Sisters, _She's My Man_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, but this chapter ended up more epic and involved than I had anticipated, mostly because I had trouble getting Littlefinger to shut the hell up. Many thanks to everyone reading and leaving wonderful comments. I hope you enjoy the lengthy Petyr POV...

As he waited for others to arrive for the meeting in the Red Keep, Littlefinger found his gaze drawn to the focal point of the room; the Iron Throne. His eyes followed the lines of molten, beaten swords disappearing into one another to form its forbidding structure; steady light from the display case catching the blade edges made dull iron and steel shine silver, though in his opinion it appeared more beautiful when illuminated by torch flame. He moved around it until his reflection in the safety glass appeared to be seated on it, and found the optical illusion pleasing. He decided he was going fuck Sansa atop it. It would require careful planning, an acceptable amount of discomfort, tetanus prophylaxis, and likely a great deal of persuasion on his part, but the symbolism alone would be worth it. He idly noted there was probably a part of his brain devoted at all times to finding new and ever more deviant places to fuck Sansa, and decided he was content with the revelation as he started to work through the logistics of the undertaking. His amorous musings were interrupted by the sound of another opening the heavy doors at the rear of the room. He turned to see the dour form of Roose Bolton striding toward him. 

“Lurking about again, Littlefinger?” The man’s flat tone echoed throughout the stone hall. 

“Lord Bolton.” As Stark's traitorous bannerman approached, Baelish bowed with a just a hint of mockery. “My condolences on your recent run of misfortune. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must’ve been to lose the opportunity to take the North, and then having to deal with a murder scandal on top of that?” He tsked in sympathy while inwardly grinning. He had relished watching every second of the news coverage as the press flayed the corporation even more thoroughly than the poor bastard in its logo. It hardly mattered if any charges were eventually filed or not considering the heavy blow the poor publicity alone had dealt to Bolton both economically and politically. The statement his company had issued claiming the property had been long abandoned and denying any knowledge of unauthorised activities taking place on it was far from adequate damage control. 

Bolton ignored his impertinent query, his expression its typical cold mask as he assessed Petyr with a dispassionate eye. “Your unflagging support of Stark is intriguing, Baelish. Tell me, what do you truly have to gain from propping up that walking corpse? Favors from Lady Catelyn perhaps?”

Petyr chuckled with false warmth. “Are you making a counteroffer, Lord Bolton? I'm flattered, but I'm afraid you're not my type.”

“No, I expect not. We’re all well aware of what that would be.” The man stepped into Petyr’s personal space with indifferent menace, pale eyes searching his. “Does Stark know the price his wife is paying for your help?”

Petyr let his expression harden minutely to suggest Bolton had hit a nerve. There was no such deal, of course, unless one counted his relationship with Sansa, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt his cause to have them all believe so; he could leverage his well-known alleged tendre for Cat to obscure his true motives, and better protect her daughter in the process. He colored his response with an undercurrent of ice. “The better question is, does he know how fond of lions his trusted advisor has grown?” 

“Do you two need a moment alone?” The wry baritone of Tyrion Lannister rang out from across the hall. Their attention turned to the newcomer standing at ease by the open door. 

Petyr’s gaze returned to Bolton’s briefly before he stepped back first in a show of submissiveness, straddling the line between threat and pushover to induce the man to continue underestimating him. He sent the most bearable Lannister a welcoming smile. “Lord Tyrion, what a wonderful surprise. It’s good to see you well. You were sorely missed at the coronation.”

“As much as it aggrieved me to not be in attendance, I’m sure,” Tyrion returned smoothly as he ambled toward them. 

“Lord Tyrion,” Bolton acknowledged neutrally. 

“Are we not having the meeting? Don’t tell me I’m early,” Tyrion said, coming to a stop in front of them. “I could’ve used the time for much more pleasant endeavors.”

Petyr raised an eyebrow, uncertain if the man meant reading, drinking, or whoring, or some combination of the three. All were reasonable options for him. “His Grace tends to keep a flexible schedule,” he replied diplomatically. 

“Mother's blessed twat, if we’re waiting on Joffrey, none of us will see our beds tonight,” Tyrion groused. Petyr tended to agree with him. A sudden noise off to the side of the throne made them turn.

The well-coiffed but rather empty head of Jaime Lannister poked around the now open door to the small council room. “Tyrion! Did you get lost?” He smirked at his younger brother, widening it to include Petyr when he noticed him. “What is this? Some sort of pervert book club?” he japed, eyeing the stack of binders tucked under Petyr’s arm. For a man who'd impregnated his own sister no less than three times, Littlefinger mused, he was awfully cavalier with bandying about such slander. The humourless Northerner next to him stepped around a column to nod at Jaime, who appeared not to have seen him at first.  “Apologies, Lord Bolton,” the Kingslayer acknowledged with as much contrition as he seemed capable of. 

“Just because some of us choose to read...I thought you were waiting for Father,” Tyrion grumbled. 

“I was and he’s here,” his brother replied impatiently. “Get your sorry arse in the damn room before we start without you as well.” 

Tyrion muttered curses under his breath as he passed by Petyr, shuffling to where his brother was still holding the door open. “Joffrey’s not yet arrived, I take it?” he asked. 

“His Grace will be joining us momentarily,” the imposing voice of Tywin drifted in from the other room. Petyr trailed the smaller man and Bolton through the doorway to see the Lannister patriarch already seated at the table, his daughter artlessly slouched in her own chair across from him. He’d positioned himself in such a way that the head of the table was left for the tardy king--nominally the most important figure in the room--but in reality the arrangement of chairs left him the focus of attention, and therefore power. Littlefinger had to admire the old bastard. Pycelle was slumped to one side of his own seat next to the queen regent, dozing lightly, but Varys studied the latecomers carefully, giving Petyr a knowing look which he acknowledged with a mocking eyebrow. He considered revealing that he knew about the spy's offer to Sansa, but decided to wait and see what further moves he made. 

Tywin eyed them disdainfully as they moved further into the room. “Until then, we have a great deal of work to do so if you’re finished wasting my time, we can begin.” He gestured at the empty places around the table dismissively before returning his attention to the pile of papers in front of him. Jaime sat in the open seat next to his sister and Tyrion took the one opposite her, flashing Cersei a falsely warm smile, which she returned brittlely. It seemed that unlike the last meeting they held in this room, Baelish was to be granted the honor of his very own chair, which he supposed he should be grateful for; this was likely to be a lengthy gathering. He settled into the empty place next to Tyrion with Varys on his other side. It made it easier for them to spy on one another while pretending not to do so. 

Tywin’s impassive gaze swept over the table before nodding to Roose. “We welcome Lord Bolton to represent Lord Stark this evening, whom I understand is caught up in his work and will be unable to join us.” Occupied with investigating the mass of bodies found at the site owned by the very man he’d sent at Petyr’s recommendation--such a delicious irony. He would have murdered to be a witness to that particular conversation. He imagined Bolton trying to grovel would look much like a constipated lizard attempting a mating ritual. 

“First order of business--what news from Dragonstone?” Tywin addressed Jaime, but, after an exchange of glances with Tyrion, the older sibling deferred to his much more intelligent brother with a shrug. 

Tyrion answered with little hesitation. “We’ve nearly got it back to full functionality. Staffing issues have been resolved with the help of our own workforce, and any personnel still loyal to Stannis have been taken care of. There is, however, some remaining work needed on the fortifications--”

“Repairing the massive hole you put in it?” Cersei sneered delicately at her hated brother over her glass of wine. 

Tyrion’s habitual good humor vanished as he glared at his older sister. “That massive hole allowed us to take one of the most secure facilities in the country with hardly any casualties--”

“And your personal martial skills were essential to the victory, I take it?” she scoffed. 

Jaime stepped in to defend his younger brother. “Actually, we couldn’t have done it without him--”

“Enough.” Tywin didn’t have to raise his voice to cut through the squabbling of his offspring. “The acquisition of Dragonstone was essential to our plans, no matter the method of attaining it.” Tyrion gave his sister an ugly satisfied look which proved to be premature as Tywin continued, “However, Stannis Baratheon still lives, which I shouldn’t have to tell you is less than ideal. Were you too preoccupied with patting yourselves on the back when you let his wife and child slip through your fingers as well?” He leveled a piercing stare at his youngest son. Cersei smirked at Tyrion in victory. The small man appeared disgruntled, though whether it was directed more toward his sister or ever-disapproving father, Petyr couldn’t tell. 

Jaime again spoke up to deflect attention away from Tyrion. “We got as far north as the wall, but lost him there. There were rumors he might have spent some time on Skagos, as well, but we weren’t able to uncover anything.”

“Have you been able to find him?” Tywin directed his question at Varys. 

“I’m sorry, my lord, but my eyes and ears do not extend to north of the Wall. Satellite coverage is spotty, as the weather patterns and magnetic interference of the region play havoc with our technology,” Varys answered apologetically, folding his hands on the table. Petyr felt a reflexive twinge of happiness at the man’s failure. 

Tywin’s eyes narrowed critically. “Take whatever measures you need to fix it. We cannot afford to have him roaming the countryside at will.” 

“Yes, my lord,” the eunuch fawned in response, dipping his head deferentially. 

He turned to Jaime. “I want regular patrols of the region as well. Don’t give him anywhere to hide.”

His favored son nodded with an apologetic glance to his younger brother. Petyr always found their relationship intriguing, especially in contrast to how poorly Tyrion  was treated by the rest of his family, his father in particular. He never seemed to stop seeking that unattainable approval, however, a trait that might prove useful in the future. 

At that moment, the door opened abruptly with a bang, admitting the king, insouciance personified as he slunk in the room shadowed by his ever-present half-faced giant of a bodyguard. All present except for Cersei stood to pay their respects. Tywin’s movements were more leisurely than the rest, however, and his greeting to Joffrey was noticeably censorious. “Thank you for joining us, Your Grace.”

Cersei’s welcome to her son, by contrast, was much more genuine, one of the few such things about her it seemed. The boy merely waved a hand haughtily as he sat at the head of the table. “Carry on.”

“Very well, Your Grace. The next item on the list is unpleasant but necessary. Lord Bolton,” Tywin swung his penetrating stare in the direction of the substitute Hand, “the shitstorm caused by your imbecilic son is unacceptable. Need I remind you that we’re still in a precarious position and can ill-afford such scandal?”

Bolton cleared his throat, a rare show of nerves from the taciturn man. “Yes my lord. I can assure you it’s being handled--”

“He said he didn’t do it,” Joffrey interjected with some  uncertainty. Petyr was well aware of the friendship between the two little shitheads--having been forced to clean up the damage the pair were prone to inflicting on his properties and staff many a time--and it seemed Tywin might be attempting to teach the boy a lesson about being more prudent in the company he kept. He doubted it would have the intended effect however, judging by the sullen expression pasted on the idiot monarch’s face.

“I don’t care if he skullfucks a motherhouse full of septas as long as I don't have to read about it in the paper the next morning," Tywin sharply replied. The uncharacteristically crude language from the controlled, erudite man was almost startling. He glared coldly at Bolton. “Bring your bastard to heel so that we need not do it for you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Bolton replied, stone-faced. Curiously, Tywin had made no mention of the misappropriated funds Petyr knew to be stashed at the Bolton facility. He figured he was withholding it for later use. 

“What of the Targaryen girl?” he addressed Varys again. The obsequious civil servant responded with a detailed summary of the exiled heiress’s recent movements and associations. Littlefinger paid enough attention to the man beside him to note any information he did not already have, which wasn’t much. His gaze was drawn to the boy fidgeting at the head of the table, tapping his fingers on it in boredom.  He let his mind play with the satisfying idea of grinding the appendages that had dared to touch Sansa--hurt her--into dust bone by bone. He turned next to suitable options for depriving the little fucker of his manhood, and after considering an wide assortment, finally settled on burns for their capacity to deliver extreme levels of intractable pain both immediately and over time. He let the notion settle to the back of his mind when he noticed Varys approaching the end of his lengthy speech, and was ready when Tywin turned his attention to him for the first time in the meeting. “Baelish, you have a financial report ready for us, I trust?”

“Of course, my lord.” He passed around the packets for the presentation he’d been unable to deliver last meeting due to time constraints. He’d been sure to make it quite thorough, and  _ very  _ tedious. “If you’ll all turn to page fifty-seven, please, we’ll begin.” He watched their faces for the moment they realized that fifty pages in wasn’t nearly as far through it as they would have expected, and that much of it consisted of dense, inscrutable charts and spreadsheets. The best reaction was from Tyrion next to him, who let out a groan, reaching for the wine in front of his sister. He grinned inwardly as he launched into the dullest compilation of information he was capable of delivering. Sadly there was little chance of him being able to actually bore them all to death, but he considered it a dereliction of duty to not at least try. 

*************

The next afternoon found him waiting impatiently outside the Stark home. The man had left him a long if not terribly illuminating message requesting they meet. He never understood why some people still persisted in leaving voicemail when the previous decade had been spent developing far more efficient means of communication. The only exception would be Sansa; she could fill his inbox with recitations of the dictionary and he’d offer no complaints. He mentally slapped himself upside the head for the sheer sappiness of that thought, but reasoned it was excusable considering how little contact he’d managed to get with her over the past week or so. The state of emergency had been lifted late last night, which hopefully meant she’d be released from her parental prison with the resumption of classes at her university. It couldn’t come soon enough for him. 

He’d already rung the doorbell several times but gotten nothing but undecipherable noise from somewhere deeper in the house in response. He tried again, pressing the buzzer beside the large door firmly. An intelligible line finally cut through the clamor--“I don’t care what he said, this is my house, and I’m going to answer the damn door. Deal with it!” 

Petyr cocked his head, bemused.

“But milady—” a much deeper voice objected.

The door was violently yanked open, revealing a short girl with a boyish haircut clad in denim rags dwarfed by the mass of muscle with very little evidence of brains behind her but by no means outdone by him in terms of intimidation. The disdainful onceover she gave him was pure Cat. “Sorry, we don’t want any.” 

He caught the door before she could shut it in his face. “Arya, isn’t it? We met the other day at the restaurant. I’m a friend of your father’s—” He commended himself for getting the word out with a straight face even as she interrupted him.

“Oh I remember you, Littlefinger, I just don’t care,” she spat. 

He tried another tack. “Your father asked me to meet him here.”

“He’s not here. Come back later. Or better yet, not at all, ” she sneered, trying to shove the door closed on him. She was strong for her size, but sadly had all the heft of a twig. He hadn't foreseen suffering the indignity of fighting over a door with a teenager, but consoled himself that it would be worth it. Eventually.

The slow-wit behind her tried to reason with her. “Milady, perhaps—”

“Shut it, Tomard!” she grunted, still endeavoring to push him off the doorstep. 

“Arya! What are you doing?” Sansa’s dulcet tones drifted down the stairwell. Arya rolled her eyes with a sound of disgust as her sister peeked around the corner of the grand staircase.

“Mr. Baelish!” She pretended to be surprised by his presence though he’d texted her an hour before. He watched her descend the stairs gracefully, and her address to him was formal but polite. “Please, come in.”

The meatheaded obstacle stepped back from the doorway at Sansa’s entreaty, but the wolf pup in his way refused to yield, glancing back and forth between her sister and Petyr in suspicion; it was quite possible she'd have to be physically dislodged from it. He tried to recall if anything in his body language or Sansa’s had betrayed improper familiarity, though there was little point in trying to hide his interest itself after what her sister had witnessed of his behaviour at the restaurant, he acknowledged. She was far more observant than her father, and could prove troublesome. 

Indeed, the girl looked ready to accuse him of something when a full-throated roar rivalling the Porsche that had brought him there drowned out any conversation they might have. A rusty, poorly painted car with an incongruously souped-up engine pulled up to the curb. The driver was a young man with messy dark hair wearing a hoodie that had seen as many bad days as his vehicle. The boy looked strangely familiar, and glared at Petyr with an intensity he didn’t feel was warranted. Arya shot out of the door by him so swiftly he barely had time to step out of the way.

“Milady, please--” the great simpleton lunged far too slowly to accomplish anything. 

“Arya!” Sansa shouted at her sister scrabbling down the path into the waiting car. 

“I'll be back later!” she yelled back before slamming the door shut, and the car immediately peeled off with a howl. 

The poor sap looked from absconding sister to Sansa innocently welcoming a shady near-stranger into his employer’s home, clearly torn as to where his duty lay. “It’s ok, Tomard, my father trusts him.” Sansa nodded at Petyr. “Besides, Heward’s out back if I need him.”

The guard nodded shortly before rushing down the path after her sister, likely intending to trail them with the car parked out front. Petyr took the opportunity to step into the manse proper at last. For as long as they'd had the place in King’s Landing, he'd never been there before, and took advantage of the chance to gain insight into the Starks' family life. He'd never been to Winterfell either, of course, but figured that invitation was even less likely to arrive anytime soon. The Northerners evidentially eschewed the popular decor styles of the city, both the clean, modern look he preferred and the eye-watering ostentation championed by the Lannisters, settling on rustic warmth instead. Sansa sighed and shook her head as she closed the door behind him. “Sorry about that.” 

“Who was that boy?” he asked. He was certain he knew him somehow.

Sansa gave him a curious look. “Who, Gendry? He’s one of Arya’s friends.”

That triggered a feeling of vague recollection, but he still couldn’t recall why. “What’s his last name?”

“Waters. Why?”

“He looks familiar.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “He works in a garage off Steel Street, maybe you’ve used it.”

“No, that’s not it.” He took out his phone to search his database. He soon found what he was looking for. “He’s a bastard.” He could picture the boy’s mother now. There hadn’t been any reports on her for quite awhile. Whoever was assigned to it would have to answer for not informing him that Waters had made the acquaintance of Sansa’s younger sister, unlikely as it was. 

Sansa frowned at him, mistaking his statement of fact for criticism. “Maybe, but he’s a good sort. Arya’s probably a worse influence on him than the other way around.”

“No, I mean he’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” he clarified. 

She looked at him in surprise. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yes, I had him tested.”

“Does he know?” she asked, concern evident in her tone.

He twisted his lips in disgust. “Doubtful. Even if his mother had told him, he’d have been unlikely to believe her, as she’s a drunk.”

Sansa's expression saddened. “He’s never talked about her to my knowledge.”

Petyr shrugged. “It’s probably safer for him not to know, anyway.”

He saw comprehension dawn on Sansa’s face. “If Joffrey or Cersei found out about a biological son of Robert’s…”

“They would certainly have him killed.” A feeling of pride always filled him at how quickly she made connections between ideas. Her intuition was developing wonderfully, and it was thrilling having someone who could keep up with him. 

After a moment she asked, “How many are there?”

He rechecked the figures in his head, having not needed the information for awhile. “Fifteen that I’ve confirmed. Likely a dozen more on top of that.”

Sansa made a disgusted face. 

He smirked, drawling, “Our dearly departed king was not fond of condoms.”

She huffed. “Neither are you, apparently. How many bastards do you have running around?”

He shook his head. “None. I only made that mistake once. It was...rectified, and I’ve been very careful since.” He knew they would have to discuss his unfortunate history with Lysa eventually, but had no desire to do so now. 

“That’s not been my experience.” She crossed her arms, blatantly skeptical.

He wondered when they were going to talk about this. She hadn’t pressed him on it since that first night, which he’d been quite grateful for. He knew he was clean, and certainly trusted her; he wanted nothing to interfere with the sublime experience of being with her. “You, my dear, are the exception.”

“In that you think me competent to handle contraception all on my own?” The level of condescension she packed into the question was impressive. 

He had to tread very, very cautiously here so as to not scare her away. “In that should you choose to bear my child, I would very much welcome it.” Long ago he'd deemed a family more liability than asset, but like many of his rules, he found himself bending if not breaking it for her sake. Beyond the visceral reaction the idea provoked on a primal level, he found himself most desirous of the concrete, permanent bond it would form between them. There was every chance it would put his money, power, position--everything he’d worked so hard to build--in jeopardy, but he'd never been afraid of taking risks to get what he wanted. She evidently wasn't ready for anything close to that, however, as she was staring at him with apprehension and not a little alarm. A sound from the rear of the house broke the tension and allowed them to retreat from the fraught topic. 

“Come on, my father’s study is upstairs,” she muttered, turning away from him to ascend the steps behind her. He enjoyed watching the sway of her hips and the way her jeans tightened around her slim legs as he followed, but thought they looked better wrapped around his waist or over his shoulder. 

“Your man down there, will he come upstairs?” he asked nonchalantly. 

She glanced over her shoulder to answer. “Not unless I call him. Do you want me to?”

“Not particularly. So we’re alone?”

“For now.” She shrugged, and he let his grin widen as his eyes traced up the curve of her spine. 

When they reached the second floor, he turned to her, coaxing, “You’re not really consigning me to wait in your father’s study for an hour, are you?”

She returned his appeal with suspicion. “You have a better idea?”

“How about a tour?” he suggested mildly. 

Sansa gave him a wary look. “It’s not very interesting.”

He smirked. “I think I should be the judge of that. Where's your room?” 

Her expression was skeptical but she led him down the hall without protest. When they came to the end, she opened a door to a modestly sized but well-appointed bedroom. He was aware of her watching him study his surroundings with amusement. “Do you want to see the rest of the house?”

“Not at all,” he replied, uncaring of how poorly he was disguising his motives at the moment. Besides, it had gotten him exactly where he wanted to be. 

“That wasn’t much of a tour,” she remarked, wryly. 

He chuckled. “You’re right, I should ask for a refund.” He looked around her room with unconcealed fascination. It was similar to her dorm (the half of it which hadn’t made him nauseous, at least), but appeared to be a slightly earlier, incomplete version of the finished product. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were stuffed to the brim with a wide assortment of literature. His attention was drawn to a portrait of Sansa perched on a shelf; it was done in simple pencil lines but captured her with a skill that belied its humble materials. He picked it up to examine it more closely. “Who drew this?”

“Jon.” She smiled at first, but it soon turned sad, a shade drawing over her face as she thought of her missing brother. He swallowed and put it down, regretting mentioning it immediately. He watched as her hand travelled up to her neck, thumbing something on a chain under her shirt. His breath caught in his chest when he realized it was the necklace he’d given her a few days prior--the wolf carving that had been a bitch to acquire but was certainly worth the effort now. He didn’t let his reaction show, instead moving further along the shelving until he came upon a most curious object. The scruffy, battered thing had most certainly been a stuffed animal of some sort in a former life, but was now nearly unrecognizable. He found the threads of what could have been a muzzle below one cracked button-eye, a glossy fur patch the only evidence of where another had been, the last pitiful bits of its face remaining. He turned it over, analyzing the limbs and stubby tail, and guessed that was supposed to be a bear. 

Sansa noticed what he’d picked up and glared at him. “Hey, give that back!” She strode over and grabbed at it.

Her cheeks reddened, and he couldn’t resist holding it out of her reach teasingly. “What is this?” he asked in amusement.

“Sir Fluffins,” she mumbled defensively,  so soft that he barely heard it, and tugged on his arm with some insistence. 

He chuckled at the absurd name but relinquished the doll. “What a preternaturally formal creature you were.”

“Shut up,” she frowned in embarrassment as she took it from him and placed it back on the shelf. “Like you never had a favorite toy.” 

“Oh, I did.” It wasn’t something he was proud of, certainly--a battered, splintery wooden sword that his mother had gotten him after watching him play at being a knight for hours on end. It had been one of the few things he’d been able to take with him when he was sent to the Tullys as a newly minted orphan. 

“What was it?” She eyed him curiously. 

His stomach twisted at the prospect of sharing that part of his past with her, but he was driven to do so nonetheless. He’d make her work for it, however. “Guess, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

She tilted her head in thought. “A stuffed animal of some kind?”

He shook his head, still smiling. 

“A toy car or some other vehicle?”

It was a reasonable hunch considering what she knew of his purchasing habits as an adult, but still off the mark. He gestured in the negative again. 

“An action figure?”

“No.”

She started to get frustrated. “A calculator?”

“I wasn’t that much of an incurable swot,” he replied with some annoyance. 

She thought for a bit, biting her lip in an alluring way he thought was likely unintentional. “A weapon?”

He smirked. “Now you’re on the right track.”

“Gun.”

He shook his head.

“Knife?”

“Nearly,” he encouraged. 

“Sword?”

He nodded, feeling uncomfortably bare as she studied him as if trying to fit the new information into the working knowledge she’d formed of him. He withdrew under the scrutiny, walking away to take a seat on her bed. He craved her understanding, her approval, but it made him feel weak, and the cold, calculating part of his mind derided himself for it.  “This bed is considerably better than your other one,” he remarked, eager to change the subject. 

“That doesn't automatically mean I'm going to shag you on it,” she retorted.

“What else do you propose we do, then?” he asked, slyly. 

She scoffed. “Discuss how you're going to make it out of my father’s office alive, for one. If you pull your usual shit, he's going to bash you over the head with something heavy and I'm not feeling inclined to stop him.” 

He cocked an eyebrow. “You don't think me capable of restraining myself when needed?”

Sansa jeered. “I don't know for sure about your ability, but I've seen no evidence of any inclination to do so as yet.”

“I’ve had very little reason to thus far,” he replied, smirking. 

She was quiet for a moment in consideration. “If I suck you off, will you promise to behave?” she asked in a deceptively banal manner. 

If anyone else had even hinted at the notion that he could be so easily manipulated by something as obvious as sex, he’d have laughed in their face, but hearing the tawdry, sordid offer issue from Sansa’s prim and proper lips sent a heat to his loins and a stutter to his chest; her willingness to exercise the nearly effortless power she had over him unprompted was as arousing as the prospect of the act itself, if not moreso. “I think I could manage it with such enticing motivation,” he drawled, eyeing her in anticipation. 

He felt his breath deepen even before she touched him as she matter-of-factly approached the bed. He spread his legs wider to let her fit between them, his mouth opening to devour hers when she bent to kiss him and his hands roaming over her curves greedily. He groaned as he felt her trace down his chest, caressing the scar she knew was still so strangely sensitive it nearly hurt, a hand straying to pinch one of his nipples, which drew a growl for the sweet sliver of pain. He fit a perfect breast into his palm, thumb working to tease its bud into hardening, his other hand kneading at the firm swell of her buttocks. He wanted more of her-- _ always _ \--and couldn’t get close enough for his liking. Her fingers cupped him fiercely through his trousers; he was almost fully hard as it was, and it took very little energy on her part to get him aching.  _ Finally  _ she worked through the layers of cloth to grip him properly, eliciting a moan at the feel of her soft, warm hands stroking him. The fingers clutching her hip started to pull down the waistband of her jeans, but he was surprised and almost hurt when she swatted them away, at least until he remembered the goal of this particular exercise. 

He let her lean back enough to slink down on her knees in front of him, keeping a hand braced on his thighs as the other never halted in stroking him. She licked him from base to tip at a maddenly slow pace until the sudden feel of her sucking the thick vein underneath made him curse incoherently. The wet heat of her mouth, her unbound hair brushing his thighs, the hand squeezing his heavy sac with just enough pressure drew her name from him in ragged syllables. If he were a lesser man he might have come at the sight of her lips around him alone. If he could bottle the look she gave him through her lowered eyelashes, he’d be even more disgustingly rich than he already was, but the thought of sharing it with anyone else made him snarl. He curled his fingers tighter in the glorious flames of her hair to keep himself from gagging her. He knew he had women at his establishments that could probably--with a significant amount of effort--swallow him down whole, but none of them could hope to elicit even a fraction of the response she did, their expertise nothing compared to her grace and purity. He wanted to empty himself down her delicate throat, coat her pretty breasts with his cum, bury his seed deep in her womb with the clutching heat of her shuddering around him, fill the puckered hole behind it that she’d let him play with but not yet claim-- _ wanted, wanted, wanted-- _

All of the sudden the need to touch-- _ taste _ \--more of her was overwhelming. He grabbed her bodily by the torso to haul her up on the bed with him as he shuffled back. This evoked a cry of protest from her which he could only answer inelegantly as he tried to pull her jeans down her legs. “Off,” he grunted, “I need…” 

He was unable to articulate further, but she soon understood what he was getting at, helping him peel off her clothes and kick her shoes to the floor before straddling his face backwards and leaning back down to take his his erection as deep as she could in her mouth once again. He groaned to find her already wet. “Such a naughty, filthy little girl, aren’t you,” he murmured, grinning when he felt her shudder above him in response. He got to work sopping up the aromatic liquid dripping from her folds before spreading them to thrust his tongue deeper between them. She moaned around his cock, and the resulting vibrations tested the very limits of his control; he was able to hold himself back from coming--barely--and was determined to bring her off first. He tilted his head down to take the slick pearl of her unhooded clit in his mouth and inserted one finger--then another--into her waiting cunt, curling to find the rough patch of flesh therein that would make her sing for him, and drew his thumb over the sensitive skin of her perineum before lightly pressing into her arsehole. He rolled the bundle of nerves between teeth and tongue, sucking and biting, and slipped another finger to stretch open the walls of her pussy even as he felt them tighten around him. She started grinding down on his face, her legs pressing in on either side of his head, but he hardly cared--if she ended up suffocating him, at least he’d die happy. The fluttering around his fingers turned to pulsing pressure as she reached her peak, keening above him, and the dual sensations of her clenched around his fingers and cock pushed him over with her in nearly violent bliss. 

She collapsed on top of him as they collectively tried to recover their breath, and he bore the weight gladly. He reluctantly let her shift off of him then sat up to face her. His gaze was immediately drawn to a stray droplet of his cum glistening on her cheek, and the mark of ownership set his blood pounding and had him hardening again. It was only fitting, he thought, considering he would carry her scent on his soaked beard like a brand until he washed himself clean. He brought a hand to her face before she could wipe it away, gathering the viscous liquid on his thumb and bringing it to her lips in offering. She sucked the digit into her mouth with a coy smile that should have been illegal. He drew her to himself hungrily, their flavours mixing pleasantly when his tongue twined with hers. Far too soon for his liking, she pulled away from him, looking at the clock on the wall over his shoulder.

“My father will be home soon.” He rather thought she sounded as disappointed as he felt. He let her go regretfully, accepting the offered tissue to clean himself as she did the same, then watched her redress with rapt attention. When she was done, she faced him with a look of expectation. “Well?”

For a moment he’d forgotten what had spurred the very enjoyable encounter they just had, but then remembered the bargain she’d struck. He smirked, taking the opportunity to pull her to himself again. “I promise to not provoke your fool of a father no matter how easy he makes it. You have my word, sweetling.”

“Thank you, Petyr.” She smiled mischievously and kissed him before leading him to her father’s study. 

It was easily the best deal he’d made all week, probably longer, he reflected, but now he was trapped in Stark’s stuffy, boring office with nothing to do but stare at the uninspired decor. He took in the stodgy, dark wood panelling and tasteless red carpeting with disdain, and the dead animals the man had presumably killed and mounted himself seemed to be judging him with dead eyes. There was little of interest aside from the collection of family photos adorning the walls and nearly every available horizontal surface of furniture. One in particular caught his eye, part of a set clearly originating from a family vacation someplace warm; it portrayed a several-years-younger version of Sansa in a swimsuit laughing while getting dunked in a pool by one of her older brothers. He easily mentally edited out the image of the boy holding her and focused on her captivating form. The dark blue one-piece was nowhere near as revealing as a bikini, but it clung to her pert, developing breasts wonderfully, and he wanted to trace the droplets of water cascading down her bare shoulders and bent legs with his tongue. He snapped a picture of it for later perusal, resolving to acquire a better copy in the future. Heavy footfalls on the stairs heralded Stark’s arrival, and he had to tear his attention away from it regretfully lest the man notice. 

“Lord Stark.” He stood, thrusting a hand out in greeting that Stark regarded warily before taking, understandable considering Petyr hadn’t ever initiated any such friendly gesture between them before. The sole reason he had done so now was because that hand had been buried knuckle-deep in the man’s daughter not a quarter hour before, and Petyr had purposefully only given it a cursory wipe afterwards. He wondered if Stark felt any tacky residue from Sansa’s wonderfully tight little quim; he smiled engagingly, hoping he could. 

“Thank you for coming,” the man said gruffly as he took his seat behind the desk, still thrown at how outwardly polite Petyr was behaving.

“It was my pleasure.”  _ You've no bloody idea just how much…  _ He licked his lips as he sat back down, trying to find the last traces of her flavor on them. 

“Have you seen Sansa, by any chance?” The man was trying to be casual with the inquiry and failing utterly. 

“Not since she showed me in here to wait for you,” Petyr replied truthfully. Though before that had been the divine vision of her lovely lips wrapped around his cock bringing him to a more satisfying orgasm than any of his whores could hope to achieve as he licked her dripping pussy clean. He felt himself twitch at the thought, and fought down the reaction, crossing his legs. As much as he was relying on the memory to get through the torture of treating Stark with a bare minimum of respect, he doubted becoming visibly aroused would help matters. Particularly right after discussing the man’s daughter. “Your message said you had news?” 

“I think Cersei poisoned Robert _ ,”  _ Stark declared portentously. 

Petyr had to try very hard not to let his disdainful reaction show.  _ There were glaciers in the White Waste that reached conclusions faster than this man.  _ “Do you have any evidence?”

Stark passed him a file across the desk. “Victor Qyburn, Robert’s attending physician that night. I think he was involved in some way.” The first thing Petyr saw upon opening it was a photo of the man himself, pompously posed in a lab coat, likely as part of some kind of promotional material. He paged through the hospital logs and medical records behind it, helpfully highlighted in bright yellow. The lab results for the toxicology screen stood out in bold letters--positive for cocaine, ecstasy, opioids, methamphetamines, phencyclidine...Petyr was almost impressed. Stark continued, “He hadn’t taken a Friday evening shift in three years, yet he just happened to be there when they brought Robert in?”

Petyr reached the end of the medical notes; the next pages appeared to be tax records. “Argentum?” he inquired, scanning them quickly. 

“Qyburn’s medical research lab. At one point we were investigating him for ethics violations, but nothing ever stuck. Look at the financial lists.” Stark answered. “Lion’s Paw is a non-profit financed by Casterly Rock with a long history of charitable contributions to Qyburn’s lab. Very recently they made several large donations.” 

Petyr identified a few other funds on the list as Lannister money laundering outfits as well--he’d set them up himself--but neglected to mention it. “How curious. Where are you getting all of this from?” he asked, eyeing the police commissioner carefully. 

“A source who wished to remain anonymous,” Stark looked uncomfortable with the evasion. It was most certainly Varys, though he was uncertain as yet what motive the eunuch had for doing it beyond generally interfering with Petyr’s assigned task of keeping Stark in line. It had the--likely unintended--side effect of entertaining him with the bumbling clod’s efforts at piecing things together, however. Stark cleared his throat. “I know Qyburn helped kill him, or at the very least covered it up. He had ample opportunity to tamper with evidence on the body. The crime lab draws its own blood samples post mortem, but we rely on the hospital staff to provide us with the initial tox screen results.”

“This is all very nice circumstantial evidence. Do you actually have anything solid?” Petyr asked, evenly. 

Stark frowned. “Not yet.”

Petyr raised an eyebrow. “Would you like me to acquire some?”

“Forge it, you mean?” Stark frowned. 

He shrugged. “What’s the harm of a small lie when it’s used to expose a far more damaging deception?” 

Stark shook his head adamantly. “No. We’re going to build this case properly, without your corruption tainting it.” 

Petyr sighed; he knew this was going to be tedious. He decided to throw the blind wolf a bone. He flipped back through the file to the hospital records, and soon found what he was searching for. “You should look into Lancel Lannister.” 

“Why?”

Petyr slapped the pile of papers on Stark’s desk and tapped on a sentence near the bottom of a page. “He was there that night, and spoke to Qyburn, according to the notes.” How nice of the man to keep such thorough records. It was important for billing purposes, as far as he understood. Petyr could certainly appreciate that. 

“So what?” Starks brow wrinkled. 

Littlefinger refrained from smacking him over his thick head with the hefty file, only just. “He was often responsible for providing His Grace’s entertainment. If anything had been adulterated that night, he’s the most likely to be involved,” he explained with more reserves of patience that he thought he had. 

Stark worked the information over like a cow chewing cud. Petyr had seen many a more efficient ruminant, however. “The...prostitutes with him, were they yours?” Stark stumbled over the words, strangely prudish for a man with decades of law enforcement experience that almost certainly included work in vice. He was almost disappointed the cop hadn’t used some sort of euphemism, ‘ladies of the night,’ perhaps. 

“Not that particular evening, no. Neither were the drugs, if that's what you're asking.” He could tell that it was eating the man alive to be reliant on a criminal who, furthermore, he despised implicitly on a personal level. 

Stark frowned unhappily. “Any guesses as to where they came from?” 

Petyr smirked. “If you give me descriptions of them I can make some inquiries. I imagine the evidence from the room itself disappeared?” 

“Wiped clean before we even showed up. And no one knows what happened to it, of course,” the man grumbled with a disgruntled expression. 

“Of course,” Petyr echoed. “This is all very well and good, but we have yet to address the main issue of removing you and your family from under Lannister control, which will necessitate dissolving your daughter’s betrothal.”

“She won’t like that.” Stark looked concerned.

“No, she won’t.” Like was a vast understatement. Relief, delight if not utter joy would be more accurate. “There are rumours…” he trailed off as if he were fearful of the man’s response. 

Stark’s eyes narrowed. “Of what?”

“That the King has taken up with the Tyrell girl.” It was less hearsay and more well-known fact by now, but Petyr was charitable enough not to point that out to the clueless oaf. Fine, he conceded, it was less a case of good will on his part and more what served the situation best, but he thought he should get credit for the monumental effort anyhow. Stark looked incensed, as if he were about to run off and challenge the little cocksucker to a duel to defend his daughter’s honor. As fun as that might be to watch, he knew it would be the equivalent of letting the man nobly throw himself off a very tall cliff, and so sought to redirect him. “We can use that. If we can get proof of his infidelity, you'll be well within your rights to challenge the suit.” 

“You think you can find it?” Stark looked at him hopefully. 

He shrugged. “I can try.” Stark’s expression softened before turning his attention back to the pile of papers on his desk. In reality, Petyr had been working that angle for quite a while. With any luck, they’d have Sansa out of Joffrey’s clutches--at least formally--within a matter of weeks. Free to be his alone. 

_ Mine.  _

The word seemed to reverberate in his chest, stoking the need there to an inferno. He had to grip the armrests in effort to not show it; the corners of the wood bit deep into his palms as the piece of furniture cracked in complaint under his hands. Stark looked up in concern at the noise. Petyr forced himself to relax, playing it off as if he had just been trying to shift to a more comfortable position, and got back to the tiresome task of leading Sansa’s father around in circles until the dolt gave up and agreed to his plan. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every night we throw this little soiree_  
>  _Gonna turn her head until she's mine, all mine_  
>  _Every night I breed a new disaster_  
>  _I might be right, I might be wrong_  
>  _Try to get away and I will bring you right along, so_  
>  _Sit back, have a seat_  
>  _Sometimes salty, sometimes sweet_  
>  _Hard to swallow, but fun to eat_  
>  _You ain't never leaving Bourbon Street, come on!_  
>  Jeff Tuohy _Bourbon Street_

The low, comforting dissonance of the coffee shop beneath the music playing through her headphones wrapped around her like a cloak. She’d picked the quiet, isolated corner away from the door as her workstation, spreading her belongings around the table to fend off unwanted neighbors. However, despite her surroundings, productivity was proving elusive. The blinking cursor at the end of the short paragraph she’d written was mocking her--her thoughts scattershot and focus adrift. The most persistent siphon of her attention was the impending clandestine meeting, the real reason for her presence in the cosy venue. It was well chosen; though she’d never been there before, it wasn't necessarily a place she wouldn't use, and it seemed to be patronized mostly by her fellow students, with a few writerly types thrown in . Furthermore, they’d carefully arranged it for a time where Petyr would be out of the country--having flown to Braavos for some shady dealing deemed unfit for videoconference--presumably so she’d feel more comfortable sneaking around in his absence.

 _Petyr. Fucking hell._ He was a perpetual distraction unto himself. Having him basically tell her he wouldn’t mind knocking her up had been gnawing at her all week. _What the fuck did that even mean?_ She had trouble thinking of a worse possible circumstance to become pregnant. She didn't know what would be more concerning, that he thought the nebulous relationship they had in what was effectively a war zone was a good environment to have a baby in, or the possibility that he was so overcome by some kind of Neanderthal drive that he just didn't care. Neither spoke well of his judgment at the moment. She couldn't help but wonder if the other mystery woman he'd got with child--and lost it? had an abortion? was (the gods forfend) killed?--had felt the same. And then he’d followed it up with a rare, affecting glimpse into his childhood as if he wanted to reveal it but needed to make her pry it from his jaws like an infected tooth. The man was an exasperating enigma to her sometimes, and she was one of the few people who actually liked him. At least the meeting with her father finished without bloodshed and even managed to be somewhat productive, which had to be a record for them. She wasn't sure how much credit she could take personally for the favorable outcome but felt an almost involuntary smirk form at the memory of their ‘deal.’ Though she had thought the probability of facing his scorn for the gambit rather low when she took it, as it would at the very least appeal to his deviant sense of humor, she honestly hadn't expected him to give in that easily--barter and negotiation were practically drugs to the man. Still, he’d seemed satisfied by the results, as was she. Shaking off the growing warmth in her cheeks the thought brought, her eyes abandoned her notes as a lost cause to glance at the clock in the bottom right hand corner of her laptop screen. It was almost time. What was the protocol for this? Maybe she should take off her headphones...

She sensed someone standing over her table. A deep voice inquired, “Excuse me miss, do you mind if I sit here to use the outlet? My computer is about to die.”

Slipping the earbuds off, she turned to greet the stranger with a polite refusal but realized the face under the beard and ironic glasses was familiar, if not very welcome. She just nodded at Varys, still taken aback as the heavyset man in affected scruff placed his own laptop on the table and sat down opposite her. He bent down to plug the machine into the wall to maintain the ruse. The subterfuge was effective, she had to admit--he’d even changed his speech patterns and body language--and she’d never look twice at him amidst the rest of the cafe’s clientele if she hadn’t been expecting him, but it all felt a bit ridiculous. Perhaps she should have brought a newspaper with eyeholes cut out of it.

“Your message didn't mention I needed a disguise,” she wryly remarked in greeting.

He smiled, not rising to her bait. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I hope we can come to an understanding that would be beneficial to us both.”

She was not in the mood for flowery pleasantries. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Straight to the point. As you wish,” his grin was polite but cooled imperceptibly. He leaned back, folding his hands in front of his keyboard. The gravity of his voice didn’t match his relaxed posture as he met her gaze steadily. “I know he’s been defrauding the Lannisters for years, and bleeding the Crown dry as well, but I haven’t been able to prove it. Get me that evidence, and I’ll ensure your betrothal to Joffrey is dissolved and your father’s obligation as Hand forgiven.”

A cold shiver licked down her spine, and she didn’t try to hide it. “They’ll kill him.”

He looked at her sympathetically. “Yes, Littlefinger will hang, but you and your family will be safe at Winterfell.

She scoffed, “Do you really expect me to believe a few thousand miles will protect them from that monster?”

He appeared amused by her concern. “No, but Lord Tywin can. And he’ll be very grateful to you for bringing him the head of a traitor.”

Gratitude would only get her so far. “For how long?” she asked, letting her skepticism show.

Varys shrugged. “As long as need be. Should the king grow too intractable, well...it's a shame how fleeting a reign can be, especially in such perilous times.”

She considered the merits of the proposal. “How can I trust you?”

He gave her a questioning look. “Does the fact that I’ve not disclosed your compromising relationship with Baelish not ease your mind?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Just because you haven’t fucked me over yet doesn’t mean you won’t in time.”

“How colorful. He really is rubbing off on you, isn’t he?” He looked at her suggestively, but she didn’t break. He sighed. “Trust goes both ways. How do I know you haven’t told him of our meeting?”

“Do you really think I’d be here if he knew?” she replied readily.

“I won’t pretend to understand what goes on in that twisted head of his,” he returned, meeting her non-answer with an evasion of his own. She hesitated, unsure how to respond. He seized the opening to persuade her further. “I’m afraid relationships such as yours tend to be short-lived,” he tutted softly. “You should know by now that Littlefinger has had many friends, but isn’t it curious how they never seem to last very long?”

The truths the spy had armed himself with were irritatingly effective. “I’ll have to think about it.” She began packing up her things quickly, wanting to be away from the strange man and his uncanny insights.

He shrugged. “Take some time, but I must caution you that it’s very likely for conditions to change at any moment.”

She nodded in understanding. She was almost away from the table when he spoke up again. “Miss Stark, one more thing.” She turned to look at him questioningly. Varys’s falsely bearded face exuded cloying empathy, his warning edged with concern. “The only person Littlefinger has ever truly loved is himself.” _And my mother_ , she couldn’t help but add silently even as he continued speaking with disquieting care. “I would urge you to remember that while you consider my offer.”

 _Damn you._ As if she thought of little else as she tried to sort out the mess of contradiction that was her connection to Petyr Baelish, attempting to balance lust against affection, veracity with deception, and reaching a different solution every time. Wordlessly, she spun away from the man again to stride swiftly out of the coffee shop.

*************

“Look at that slimy fuck. Waist deep in drugs and pussy, and he don’t touch none of it.”

The gruff voice carried well through the unpleasant cacophony of the club, drawing Sansa’s attention away from studying the random pattern of the carpeting (were those bloodstains? they complemented the material’s coloring too well to be coincidental) beneath their table. Surprised, Sansa looked in the direction where the rest of the men sat around her were glaring at Petyr, evidently making a rare appearance on the club’s ground floor. Strange, he wasn’t even supposed to be back for several more days. She found herself a little annoyed; she’d been subjected to the torture of enduring the company of Joffrey’s lackeys for the past few hours, and he hadn’t even bothered to tell her he’d returned early. Tonight the usual crew had been joined by more than a few men from the wrong side of the Rosby Road, which added variety to the dull proceedings but also meant that the highborn boys among their number struggled painfully to outdo them in ribaldry. Joffrey had already disappeared with Margaery after coincidentally ( _hah_!) running into her at the bar, leaving Sansa alone among the toadies, several of whom were already sporting women of uncertain repute on their laps. She’d been trapped between the Hound and the wall for most of the evening. It could be worse, she conceded, as the man did little more than sit next to her stolidly, not even drinking, clearly not enjoying himself any more than Sansa was.

“How would you know?” asked a second, whom Sansa had labeled ‘tall fuckwit’ rather than bother to learn his name.

“Lyra told me,” said the first, who had already earned himself the title of ‘short fuckwit.’

“Who?” A third interjected. Prior statements he’d made that evening had prompted her to gift him the moniker of ‘ginger fuckwit.’ Consistency was the key to a good theme.

“The Lyseni girl. Says he’s never even tried it.” The first man’s tone suggested the concept was unfathomable to him.

“Maybe she’s not his type,” the ginger imbecile shrugged.

Stumpy fuckwit jeered, “I don’t care who the fuck you are, a Lyseni woman who can suck iron through a straw is any man’s type. Besides, she said she never saw him touch none of the others either.”

“Maybe he don’t like girls. Is it true?” A fourth moron displaying far too many gold chains and terrible diction for having attended one of the poshest schools in Highgarden--henceforth to be known as ‘poser fuckwit’--addressed the scantily clad woman on his lap. She only shrugged, evidently better with discretion than her co-worker. Sansa made a note to tell Petyr to reward her with a bonus when she was feeling more charitable. And warn him to reassess his investment in the Lyseni gossip.

“He’s got boys too; he never goes near ‘em either,” the second speaker observed.

“And how would you know that, eh?” the first idiot jeered. The taller imbecile gave the shorter one a shove in retaliation for the insinuation. Sansa internally rolled her eyes at the display of homophobic machismo.

Ginger spoke up again, “Looks like he’s interested in at least one girl.”

 _Myranda?_ she thought in disbelief, turning her attention back to where Petyr was standing. The mad bitch had come with them to the club, but disappeared right after they'd arrived, off doing gods knew what for quite a while now. She didn’t know where Ramsey was either, and didn’t care to try guessing. It looked as if Petyr had been speaking to one of his staff at the bar when Myranda cornered him, but he didn't exactly seem to be an unwilling participant. Her flirtations were painfully unsubtle even from a distance but somehow seemed to be succeeding regardless, as he was directing most of his replies to her tits, though they were pushed up far enough in that bra they might well have been at her vocal cords. She saw Myranda whisper something in his ear then lick it, and had to suppress a shudder of revulsion. He turned back to the bartender to retrieve a drink to hand to her that she clutched like a trophy. The psychotic slut trailed a hand down his chest, stopping to play with the ever present tie pin, and Sansa felt her stomach twist further. Her fortune worsened when she saw that the woman was leading him back over to their table by his neckwear like one of the wretched hounds she was obsessed with.

She shouldn’t— _didn’t—_ care who he slept with. He could make his way through every man and woman in his employ and it wouldn’t change their arrangement. She told herself she was just annoyed at the execrable taste he was displaying in choosing Ramsey’s crazed whore. He'd clearly have a much easier time convincing _her_ to carry his child, she thought spitefully. They sat down on the couch opposite her after exchanging pleasantries with the rest of the table that were shockingly sycophantic for how much they'd been slagging him off not a minute before. She paid little attention to the conversation that followed, resolving to look anywhere else for the remainder of the evening. Maybe she could feign illness and go home--it wouldn't be much of a stretch at this point.

From the corner of her eye she noticed he had the gall to continue to stare at her like he normally did with Myranda draped all over him. The harlot mouthed something else at his neck then drew her hand down his chest to grab at his crotch. Her presence here was redundant on multiple levels now. Avoiding Petyr’s overly direct gaze, Sansa noticed Clegane giving her a concerned look. She would be damned if she was going to sit around any longer just to be pitied by the fucking Hound, of all people. She excused herself, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere. If he was trying to make her jealous in some sort of game, she wasn’t in the mood, she wouldn’t play. Her fury mounted the longer she thought on it--at Myranda, at Petyr, but she reserved most of her ire for herself. She was well aware of who and what he was; he'd founded an empire exploiting the interplay between sex and power, and she was a fool to let herself be hurt by the consequences. He didn’t answer to her, and, despite his frequently possessive behavior, neither did she to him. Evidently it was too much to ask that he not throw it in her face, however. The conversation with Varys replayed in her mind, his parting shot echoing around her head the perfect soundtrack to her folly.

 _Fuck him._ She went to the toilets just for a bit of quiet, and swung by one of the bars at the other end of the building on her way back, not at all interested in seeing how much of her tongue Myranda was attempting to get down his throat. Maybe she’d just get drunk; she couldn't be expected to suffer through such a sight sober. She probably had at least another half hour before Clegane would come looking for her, perhaps longer, as he’d been giving her more and more leeway since the coronation. It was rather generous of him after she’d been less than appreciative of his attempt to spare her the sight of her father’s planned execution. As she waited at the dark end of the busy bar for a server to notice, she felt someone seize her around the waist and pull her back into the shadows through a doorway. She unleashed an elbow into the assailant’s midsection but was chagrined to recognized the pained grunt that followed as they stumbled into the corridor behind the bar, the door closing behind them. His arms loosened enough for her to turn around to face him. The wince Petyr gave her almost made her apologize but then she remembered how angry she was with him at the moment. Besides, he was the one who decided it was a good idea to attack the woman he’d taught self defense to and try to drag her away into a dark room. Despite her less than receptive response to the maneuver, he leaned in to kiss her, but before he could do so she pushed him away forcefully, asking “Don’t you have somewhere else to be right now?”

He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Myranda gets lonely with shocking speed. She’ll find someone else’s dick to suck if you don’t get back out there.” Sansa aimed for disparaging but suspected some of her bitterness slipped through.

“They're welcome to her,” he replied, amused. The contempt he injected into the statement wasn’t going to redeem him, however. She made to step around around him but he threw out an arm blocking her path.

“Let me go,” she demanded, looking over his shoulder to avoid his stare. She needed time and space away from him to regroup, rebuild the walls she’d let crumble that would keep her safe from him. She felt humiliated enough as it was.

He stepped in front of her, hands moving to grasp her shoulders. “Not until you tell me what's wrong.”

“It's nothing,” she returned stubbornly, not convincing even herself, but it was preferable to starting a full-blown argument with him over something which likely meant nothing to him at all. She felt caged, and had half a mind to use another of the moves he’d shown her.

“If it's nothing then _tell me._ ” Concern colored his demand even as impatience tightened the corners of his eyes.

“No,” she snapped. It was childish, but a less violent option than punching him in the throat, which was growing more and more tempting by the second.

“Don't you think you're being a bit unreasonable about this?” he huffed.

She knew she was, but she was hardly going to let it stop her now. “Fuck you.”

An intoxicating blend of lust and anger darkened his gaze. “Anytime, anywhere, any way you wish.”

“That wasn't an invitation,” she hissed. She shrugged off his hold, crossing her arms defensively. “What do you want?” Maybe if she let him tell her whatever he thought she should know she could leave.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he frowned at her accusingly.

She laughed in disbelief. “And you thought shoving your face in Myranda’s tits was the best way to get my attention?”

He shook his head, sneering back, “I have not ever had any interest in the poxy whore and never will.”

“Really? Because it looks like at least part of you does,” she cracked, looking down pointedly.

“What?” He still appeared baffled until she cupped the prominent erection he was sporting. He happily ground himself into her palm until she withdrew it, irritated; she was trying to prove a point, not offer him a hand job. He blinked for a few moments, his mouth slackened, before coming back to himself, glare reasserting itself on his face. She might have gotten satisfaction from his discomposure under other circumstances. “That's from _you,_ you daft woman!” he snarled.

“Right, I’m sure you hated every second of her feeling you up like breeding stock,” she retorted.

His mouth twisted. “I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.” Her anger flared again and she tried to break free of his hold, but he pushed her back against the wall, his face too close to hers, the force of him torturously inescapable. “I felt absolutely nothing at all,” he rasped, cold and pitiless. 

She shook her head, unwilling to believe him.

“What do you want me to do to prove it? Do you want me to slice her throat from ear to ear? Cut out her eyes?” he implored in cruel jest, slipping a leg between hers, hardness pressed into her thigh, his arms on either side of her head trapping her against the wood paneling behind her.

“No!” she cried reflexively.

“Then what will you have of me?” His eyes bore into her with a ferocity that made her suddenly doubt he’d ever been joking, that if she had said yes he would have taken a knife to the woman in a heartbeat. It should have made her afraid, but the idea that he would maim, _kill_ just because she asked gave her a rush of power she’d never felt before. He could see her wavering and took advantage of it, slipping a hand up her dress underneath her panties to stroke her beseechingly. The door next to her opened suddenly, revealing a young man lugging a keg alongside him. The shocked employee stood frozen in the doorway for half a beat, gawking at them. Sansa met his wide eyes with blush.

“ _Get out,”_ Petyr hissed, his gaze never breaking from hers. 

“Sorry sir,” the man mumbled as he stepped back, dragging his burden hastily behind him, now looking terrified.

She knew what she wanted to request but hadn’t dared, partly because of the hypocrisy it would represent considering her forced intimacy with Joffrey but also for the not insignificant chance he would refuse. His eyes were pleading in an almost manic way as he ripped her knickers to get better access to her sex. “Tell me!”

She slipped her own closed under the onslaught of his stare, his voice, his fingers inside her, and relented, tipping her head back against the wall. “As long as we're doing whatever this is, don't fuck anyone else,” she muttered. _Especially Myranda._ She didn’t need to say the last bit aloud. Admitting her need for his fidelity was weakness enough.

“Done,” he breathed, his mouth nearly touching hers. She opened her eyes, wondering why he had capitulated so readily, why his expression was shifting to one close to triumph as he hiked her legs up around his waist, sliding inside her with a familiar ache. She didn’t have to wait long. She tightened her thighs around him, lacing her arms around his neck.

“Sansa, I haven’t touched another woman since the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. His confession was not in the least romantic but wrong on so many levels, beginning with the fact she had been little more than a child then. It bespoke of unhealthy obsession if not outright mental illness. She should be pushing him away, putting long miles and many locked doors between them rather than pulling him closer, bringing his lips to hers; she should certainly _not_ feel her whole body clench around him involuntarily at the thought. He groaned against her parted lips when he felt it, his beard scratchy against her cheek, and began to thrust even deeper into her in response, shifting his hold so that his thumb could circle her clit with slow, maddening pressure. His voice was more growl than anything as he continued, “You have no idea what you do to me, do you? I don’t want anyone else. Not Myranda, not any of these other women here, not your mother, _just you._ ”

Even with the blasting music, Sansa suspected the bar staff could hear him pounding her against the wall in abandon. It should have bothered her but didn’t; his inexorable lust was infectious, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. She gave up on trying to muffle the plaintive cries she was making and when he noticed it only spurred him to draw more sounds of raw need from her, withdrawing just enough to make her protest the absence before driving himself ruthlessly back into her at an almost brutal pace. She pressed her nails into his shoulders in retaliation, trying to leave marks even through the layers of clothing he still wore. The shelves rattled around them; she heard glass clinking and then something shatter on the floor, but paid it no heed. Neither of them were going to last long at this rate. Indeed, soon she felt the heat building where he touched her, inside and out, and it was almost too much.

Petyr groaned, “Fuck yes, so fucking wet and tight, that’s it Sansa, come for me my--”

She grabbed his tie and used it to crash their mouths together, biting at him as she broke, feeling his delight in her aggression which triggered his own release within her, and she rode out her orgasm on his pulsing cock as he filled her, one or the both of them moaning, she couldn’t tell. He let her legs go to shakily stand on her own when he started to soften within her but kept her pressed against the wall, breathing in her exhalations like he depended on it. He had gotten her to admit she was invested in whatever travesty of a relationship this was, that she cared for him as more than a convenient partner for sin or murder; he had made her claim him and given up nothing he hadn’t already willingly surrendered in the exchange. She had a sneaking suspicion that had been his aim with the stunt all along, the sly, manipulative, obsessive git. Evidently he was now _her_ sly, manipulative, obsessive git, and the gods only knew what that meant. He pulled back enough to stare at her with an expression that was mixed yet contained a palpable dose of smug satisfaction. “You're sure you don't want her dead?”

“Not at the moment.” She should've said of course not, that would be insane, no normal person would even think it, but that’s not what came to mind first, or even second. Petyr seemed happy with her answer nonetheless, judging by the vicious smile he was giving her. She swallowed, trying to regain some semblance of rationality. “What did you want to show me?”

“These are going to be all over the tabloids by morning.” He handed her his phone, open to a photo album, and watched her intently. She flipped through the set of pictures, unsurprised to see Joffrey and Margaery in progressively more compromising positions somewhere warm enough to be clad in bathing suits and very little else. Dorne, probably. Loras’s presence in the photos would guarantee the attention they needed. She would be free. She’d nearly forgotten what it was like not to have to gasp for every breath, fighting against the constant pull of Joffrey dragging her down to the depths like a malicious, cretinous anchor. She kissed Petyr again, slow, easy, and deep.

“How was your meeting with Varys?” he asked when they separated.

She grimaced. “I think he’s going to be trouble. He’s offering to protect my family if I turn you over to Tywin. He knows you’ve been stealing their money.”

Petyr hummed in thought. “I expected more from him,” he mused. She felt a cold grip around her lungs; the eunuch’s appeal to her roiling emotions to bolster his arguments had been alarmingly effective, and she was unwilling to disclose that aspect of the exchange to the man holding her even after what had just passed between them. She pressed against him, wanting to enjoy the contact before she inevitably had to return to the agony of suffering Joffrey’s entourage. Petyr returned it eagerly, and the shard of ice in her chest made her bury her face in his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd hoped to have this done earlier, so apologies for the delay. As ever, thanks for reading, and comments are always very much appreciated. Cheers!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If you could only read my mind_   
>  _You would know that things between us_   
>  _Ain't right_   
>  _I know your arms are open wide_   
>  _But you're a little on the straight side_   
>  _I can't lie_
> 
> _Your one vice_   
>  _Is you're too nice_   
>  _Come around now can't you see_
> 
> _I want you_   
>  _All tattooed_   
>  _I want you bad_
> 
> _Complete me_   
>  _Mistreat me_   
>  _Want you to be bad_
> 
> _I want you_   
>  _In a vinyl suit_   
>  _I want you bad_
> 
> _Complicated_   
>  _X-rated_   
>  _I want you bad_
> 
> _I mean it_  
>  _I need it_  
>  _I want you bad_  
>  -The Offspring, _Want You Bad_

Sansa slammed the door closed with quite a bit more force than the defenseless fixture really deserved, and flung her coat on a hook by it in disgust. The morning had been even more of a trial than she thought it would, she should've just skipped class entirely; the attention she had been bombarded with since the publishing of the photos early that morning was nothing short of brutal. Perhaps naively, she hadn’t previously considered herself a noteworthy subject of gossip--her engagement wasn’t really  a secret, but neither was it common knowledge. Indeed, Sansa was merely a footnote in most of the articles themselves, if she was mentioned at all, which wasn’t a surprise, as she generally stayed on the periphery of the celebrity granted to the Tyrells and Joffrey, the latter famous for his father’s political status if not his concealed crown. Evidently, however, enough people recognized her to spread the news all over campus, rendering her daily routine unbearable. She did receive a few condolences that actually seemed genuine and heartfelt, her roommate chief among them. Jeyne was beside herself on Sansa’s behalf, which was rather endearing, even if it resulted in Sansa comforting her friend rather than the other way around. Her phone was likewise bombarded with texts and calls, most of which she ignored. She knew she would have to return the worried messages from her parents and siblings soon, however, but wanted to at least attempt to go about her day as usual first.

Midway through her civil liberties seminar, however, she finally gave up. She fled to her father’s, reasoning she could afford to skip a few classes she wouldn’t have found productive anyway besieged by pitying looks and whispers. Petyr would’ve gladly taken her in, but she knew her father would likely send the entire police force after her if she disappeared just then. Though she preferred independence to relying on her family’s wealth and stature, she resorted to requesting a ride home from one of the guards to escape the scrutiny; she could forgive herself the indulgence this once. At least the privacy afforded her the opportunity to call her mother back, and the ensuing lengthy conversation with her was cathartic in a way she hadn’t expected. She caught up with the rest of her family as well; Bran’s texts were supportive and surprisingly insightful for his age, Robb’s largely consisted of ireful promises to tear Joffrey limb from limb (as did Arya’s, with considerably more profanity from the latter), and Talisa’s clinical yet empathetic.

Now that she was safely away from the sea of prying eyes, she could finally relax a bit. Pretending to be miserable for that which made her want to weep for joy would be the greatest challenge of the day. Fatigue and annoyance would do well to cover her lack of sorrow, she reasoned, and she had at least a few hours before her father or sister would be home. As she trudged up the stairs, intent on making the most of the the time by taking a nap, she heard someone walking toward her from the rear of the house. She leaned over the bannister and saw the uniformed figure of Kyra approach, one of the cooks who had been in her father’s service since shortly before the move to King’s Landing. The woman smiled at her in greeting. “Would you like something to eat, Miss Sansa?”

Her stomach rumbled in reply, and she realized she hadn’t consumed anything since breakfast, and hadn’t even had much of an appetite then. “A sandwich would be lovely if you don’t mind, Kyra.“

“Of course, Miss.” The housekeeper was only a few years older than herself but managed to be a steady, welcoming presence nonetheless.

“Thank you,” Sansa returned, then continued on her way to her bedroom. She lugged herself upstairs, tossing her bag on the chair by the window before collapsing on her bed. She occupied herself with staring up at the ceiling in an attempt to think about nothing at all. After a short while, a polite knock on the open door heralded the arrival of her sorely needed meal. Sansa rose to her feet in slightly higher spirits, eyeing the tray laden with a hearty sandwich, crisps, pickle, and can of soda eagerly.

“Thanks Kyra,” she said, relieving the other girl of her burden. Sansa nodded at her gratefully, and the cook bowed slightly before leaving her in peace. The woman chose to express her sympathy through the food she brought rather than conversation, which was a relief. As Sansa ate, balancing the tray on her lap cross-legged on the bed, she sent a text to Petyr bitching about the tribulations of the day. His reply was sympathetic but also contained suggestions for cheering her up ranging in appropriateness from ‘not in the least’ to ‘there’s something wrong with you,’ though the ensuing debate over whether his blatant self-interest was mitigated at all by the offer to let her sodomize him first (it clearly wasn’t, despite his assurances that he wouldn’t even enjoy it _that_ much) managed to brighten her mood more than it had any right to. She wasn’t going to give the pervy man the satisfaction of knowing it, however. Belly full and mind pleasantly distracted, she decided to try for a nap.

A light knocking woke her some time later. Disoriented, she didn’t answer at first, as she was only capable of turning over to face the door whence it came. The sound repeated, and was joined by a deep, familiar voice. “Sansa?”

Her father, unexpectedly arrived home before Arya. She suspected he’d left work early just for her. “Come in,” she answered after clearing her dry throat.

He opened the door and padded over to her, sympathy writ across his rough features, his eyes dark beneath furrowed brow. She sat up as the bed dipped under his solid weight, his hand coming to land on her shoulder. “Honey, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this,” he murmured.

She forced her face to crumple, feigning unshed tears, and, predictably, the hand on her shoulder drew her toward him. Her father sheltered her in his strong, warm embrace, pretending that he had nothing to do with the destruction of her betrothal, and she in turn acted like it was the worst thing ever to happen to her rather than a goal she’d been working years to achieve. She sniffled into his chest for verisimilitude, and he rocked her lightly back and forth. She conjured enough tears to make her eyes glassy and red for when they parted, keeping her breath carefully uneven. Her father swallowed before breaking the silence to hesitantly ask, “Do you want to give him another chance?”

She shook her head against him adamantly. “I never want to see him again.”

“Ok, it's all right, dear,” he hummed, pulling her tighter as she intensified her spurious distress.

She calmed herself noisily and pulled away from him. She met his concerned eyes with pain, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “What happens now?”

He sighed. “We’ll have to formally request to break the engagement. It’ll take a few days. Are you absolutely sure? We can wait if you want more time to think on it--”

“No,” she interrupted, harshly. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

Her father nodded, not quite able to hide his relief. “I’ll begin the arrangements.” He pulled her into another hug, offering more reassuring words, before leaving her to continue her counterfeit mourning. She lay back down but didn’t feel like returning to sleep. She ventured a look at her phone and immediately regretted it, as contained a mountain of messages she had no desire to address aside from a select few. She shot back a snarky reply to another of Petyr’s unhelpful ideas-- _No, tying you up and clamping shit to your junk would NOT make me feel better._ Upon further consideration, the gag had merit, but she had the feeling it wouldn’t be that much of an impediment to his obnoxiousness.

Another knock arrived before his response. Setting her phone aside, she summoned more tears for the benefit of her visitor before rising to open it. Arya brandished a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, two spoons, and a stack of cheesy DVDs, her expression a blend of sympathetic and ferocious. “King Cumstain never deserved you,” she declared.

Sansa smiled and gestured her inside. She selected an old favorite from the pile and put it on while Arya made herself at home on Sansa’s bed, stealing an extra blanket. Arya even let her take the first scoop of ice cream after she settled back down beside her. Sansa appreciated her sister’s efforts. They didn’t usually do this sort of thing. Her sister would soundly deny watching much less enjoying the chick flicks she’d brought outside of this room, and Sansa would keep the secret of Arya’s soft side in unspoken agreement. They watched the sappy film play out--a stereotypical ‘boy meets girl but can’t be with her due to fantastical and silly reasons until it’s all handily resolved at the last second’--in silent camaraderie. Halfway through it, when things looked most dire for the protagonist and his lady love, Sansa had the urge to broach a topic untouched for some time but always lingering in the background. “I miss Jon,” she admitted, glancing over at Arya.

“Me too,” her sister replied, her voice hoarse. They snuggled closer together in silence of shared grief for a long time, passing the carton back and forth wordlessly. Abruptly--right around the introduction of the deus ex machina in the final act--in a completely unsubtle change of topic, Arya asked, “What is up with you and Littlefinger?”

 _Fuck._ She sounded more concerned than accusational, which Sansa supposed boded well. They’d been lucky Arya hadn’t voiced her suspicions earlier or more publicly. “What are you talking about?” she casually asked in return.

Arya snorted incredulously. “Seriously? He looks at you like he’s constantly undressing you with his eyes. I’ve seen you dickpunch guys for less.”

Sansa groaned, covering her face with her forearm. “That was one time...and anyway he’s not that bad.”

Arya tugged away the arm flung over her eyes. “He’s Pepe Le Pew in human form. Wait, I take that back, it’s an insult to both skunks and sleazeballs,” she declared.  

Sansa giggled, swatting at Arya with her spoon. She could tell from her determined expression that her sister wasn’t going to drop it, however, and decided to conceal one truth within the disclosure of another. She sighed in resignation. “If I tell you, you have to promise to keep it a secret.”

Arya looked at her in alarm. “Sansa--”

“Promise me.” She left no room in her tone for compromise.

Arya tilted her head but reluctantly agreed. “OK, I promise.”

She pursed her lips, looking at the door as if someone would be listening at the keyhole--her father perhaps--and chastised herself for her foolishness. Where to even begin? “Joffrey...isn’t what you think he is.” Safe, non-incriminating, and utterly unhelpful in getting her point across.

Predictably, Arya sneered. “I think he’s a douchebag, like the rest of his douche family. What does that have to do with anything?”

“He’s so much worse than that.” She laughed without humor. She swallowed as she organized her thoughts, trying to find the least distressing path of disclosure. She started and stopped a few times, the words caught like fishbones in her throat; admitting what had happened to her sister was much harder than she thought it would be. Shame filled her, a deep, abiding humiliation for being the girl stupid enough to fall for a monster and too cowardly to leave him. The only other person with whom she’d discussed the abuse was Petyr, and he’d already known at the time. She didn’t need to fake pain or discomfort; she felt herself curl up defensively, running her hands over the skin of her wrists that at one time had perpetual bruises tattooed over it.

Arya studied her with increasing concern until realization dawned over her face. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”

She shook her head as if trying to deny it even as she admitted, “All the time.”

“Sansa…” Arya trailed off, clearly at a loss. Sansa couldn't look her sister in the eye yet, too apprehensive of seeing the pity that must be there. Disgust she could handle; she felt it for herself often enough.  Instead, she chose to focus on the conventionally handsome actor pleading his case to the equally attractive but somehow oblivious romantic interest on the screen in front of them--would they or wouldn’t they? _Who the fuck cares._ She felt Arya’s thin but strong arms come around her in a fierce grip, ice cream forgotten. At first she couldn’t breathe, but when her sister sniffed, trying to hold back tears, something released inside her. She turned to hug her back, letting herself cry in earnest for the first time that day. Minutes ticked by with nothing passing between them but shared pain and remorse.

Eventually, Arya broke the silence, mumbling “I’m sorry,” into her shoulder.

“It’s ok.”  It was easier to talk when she didn’t have to figure out where to look and could just focus on the comforting weight beside her.

“It’s not. Why didn’t you tell me?” Arya asked, hurt lacing the question.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” she sighed. “Nothing anyone could have done. They’d have slaughtered you all and made me watch.”

Arya bolted upright as if she was going to leap from the bed to stab Joffrey with something pointy. “I’m going to kill the fucker.” She glared at Sansa with gritted teeth.

“Arya, you can’t do anything, it’s too dangerous.” Sansa rubbed her sister’s shoulder and offered her the still half-full tub of ice cream, trying to soothe Arya’s legendary wrath.

Arya begrudgingly took another huge spoonful and consumed it with acrimony. With her mouth still full of ice cream, she asked, “What does Littlefinger have to do with all of this? He’s one of _them._ ”

Sansa knew her sister wouldn’t be put off that easily. “He is and he isn’t,” she evaded, stalling for time.

Arya emitted an exaggerated snort that was not at all ladylike, rolling her eyes at Sansa. “Well that clears things up,” she drawled, sarcasm palpable.

Sansa smiled faintly before trying to explain the complicated role Petyr played in the mess of her life. The sanitized version of events fell from her lips more easily than she would have expected. “He hates them too. He found me one day after Joffrey...got violent. He helped me.” Shagged her, more like, but she knew to Petyr they were nigh indistinguishable. Putting that thought aside, she continued, “When he figured out what was going on-- swear you won’t tell anyone, especially Dad.” This was the biggest risk, even more than what she’d already revealed, but if she could trust her sister with it she’d have another ally to help shoulder the oppressive burden, to feel a little less alone. Of all her siblings, Arya was the most likely to understand her course of action and desire for retribution. She stared her sister down, trying to convey the gravity of her request.

Arya nodded fervently. “I swear!”

“He’s helping me take them down.” The words were clumsy, cliched, but she couldn’t find any that wouldn’t be.

Arya looked nonplussed. “What do you mean?”

Sansa felt her expression harden. “We’re going to kill Joffrey and dismantle their empire. It’s the only way we can be safe.” Saying it aloud to anyone but Petyr felt strange and unreal.

Arya was looking at her as if she’d never seen her before, this stranger wearing her sister’s skin and talking of murder and treason. She swallowed, but recovered, her face resolute as she demanded, “Tell me what I can do.”

Sansa would keep her well out of it when the time came, she’d put Arya in enough danger as it was by giving her information alone, but knew her sister would never accept being coddled. She decided to placate her with a vague promise. “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll let you know.”

“You’d better.” Arya elbowed her with the arm holding the carton of ice cream. “What does Littlefinger get out of all this?”

Petyr never did anything for only one reason, it would be far too predictable. She picked the safest. “Chaos. The opportunity to take control when it all goes to shit.”

Arya wrinkled her nose. “Maybe, but he also wants in your pants, and he’s not even trying to hide it.”

“ _Arya…”_ she groaned.

 _“Sansa…”_ her sister echoed. _“_ He always looks like he's two seconds away from humping your leg, and it’s gross.”

Sansa laughed despite herself at the not wholly inaccurate image. “It’s ok, I can handle him.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Her sister mimed a retch.

“Eww Arya, don’t be disgusting.” She shoved her gently in retaliation, which only made her sister start giggling as well. Fortunately, it seemed Arya didn’t think Sansa was at all likely to actually reciprocate his interest. Petyr would be offended, but she thought it might be a more damning indictment of her than him.

As her snickers died away, Arya sobered. “Do you trust him?” she asked, expression serious once again. Sansa bit her lip, looking for a way to respond. Arya frowned, saying,“The fact that you're hesitating right now is all the answer I need.”

Sansa shook her head again. “I trust him with some things. I trust him with this,” she asserted. She wondered who she trying to convince more with her words, Arya or herself. Her sister let it be, though, and they settled back down to enjoy the pleasant, insubstantial denouement of the film. Sansa decided the next movie they watched would have a higher body count.

*************

Petyr glanced back over at his phone, distracted by the torturous picture that Sansa had sent him that morning. He’d already wanked twice to it in between interminably dull meetings over at his finance office, and sent a few pictures back to Sansa for good measure. Sadly, he knew she wouldn’t respond until she was finished class, the dutiful little student she was. The fact that she’d chosen simple, unexotic white that morning suggested the much appreciated gift had been unplanned, or perhaps she knew how the mockery of innocence would undo him, which was even better. For the longest time, Sansa had been wary of such exchanges, unwilling to take the risk even after he’d offered her control over the images. It wasn’t until she realized that he would safeguard them better than he did anything else he owned that she relented; only he would ever see the earth-shattering vision of her playing with her glorious pussy, _no one else._

Fortunately, she seemed to have forgiven him for the ruse with Ramsey’s slag. At first, he’d only wanted to get Sansa’s attention. After his trip had gone better than planned, allowing him to fly home early, he’d tried to call her multiple times, but she never picked up or answered any of his texts. When he got back to the club he understood why, as she was unlikely to have the opportunity to do much while being babysat by the Hound, but it didn’t ease the restless urge to talk to her. Irrationally, it felt like she had been ignoring him all night, and he couldn’t stand it anymore--he _needed_ to get her attention somehow.

By the time he reached the club floor, his plan was only half-formulated. Bolton’s whore was merely a means to an end, a convenient excuse to be invited to her table without raising suspicion. All it took to lure the greedy slattern in was but a flash of wealth and power; manipulating her had been laughably easy. Occasionally, he had women (and men) working for him who thought they could gain favor with him by offering their services. Usually, a firm rebuke settled the issue--Ros and Olyvar were quite good at corralling wayward employees --but sometimes more drastic measures were needed. He found requesting something beyond their tolerance and and leaving them to the mercies of whatever it was--without his participation, of course--quite effective. Sadly, his current assaulter’s efforts failed to reach even that low threshold. Clearly the girl had never been taught the value of subtlety, and had no understanding that the purpose of intrigue was to leave something to the imagination. She had been crassly eager to parade him in front of Sansa as well; evidently, there was some sort of history between the women he’d not been fully privy to. When he’d seen Sansa’s response to it, however, the ploy became something more; at this distance he might have imagined the falter in the bored look plastered over her face, and suddenly had to be absolutely certain. He decided to encourage the clinging harlot’s tiresome, brazen advances, driven to find out whether Sansa felt even a fraction of the overwhelming need for him that he did for her, or the burning possessiveness it bred.

Sitting across from her afforded him the chance to observe the subtle signs of her jealousy--a tightening of her lips, minute fidgeting of her fingers in her lap, a slight tensing of her posture--though she still refused to make eye contact with him. When she stormed off--a clear sign his actions were having the desired impact--he felt a giddiness he hadn’t thought himself capable of before, tempered only by the knowledge he now very likely had an incensed Sansa to deal with. It was a prospect equal parts worrisome and arousing, but the former would grow to dominate the latter the longer he let her anger build. Fortunately, Mirelle did her duty and retrieved him on some fictitious pretense before he lost his temper with the girl trying far too hard to dig her talons in him--as if he could be seduced by something so pathetic. After that, tracking Sansa down had been trivial; much less so was the task of convincing her that he hadn’t forsaken her for the dubious charms of Bolton’s concubine, rather finding them about as appealing as having a dog nosing around his crotch. How she could believe anyone would choose that money-grubbing slut over her was beyond him. He hadn’t meant to hurt her--he felt more than a stab of guilt for it--but he couldn’t regret the pleasure the assertion of her claim over him brought.

It was outdone only by her response when he almost involuntarily disclosed the full extent of his untoward obsession, of just how long he’d waited for her--years, ever since the first time he’d glimpsed the shock of Tully red from across a crowded, noisy venue. He’d been compelled to seek her out, a better version of the girl who broke his heart and left it strewn about him in pieces while he lay bleeding out on the floor so long ago. He could see the woman she would become in her still-unfinished features, and was captivated by it. Inviting himself to sit in the seat next to her left mercifully vacant of her overprotective father, he ignored the impertinence of her younger sister and the meddling old busybody further down the row. He couldn’t help but find excuses to touch her--a kiss to her hand in greeting, leaning in close to impart salacious gossip, a brush of his shoulder against hers, a light hand on her arm to garner her attention, his knee pressing into her leg as he settled back into his chair. She’d shied away from him a bit, but that was to be expected. She’d been barely thirteen at the time.

He recalled fondly that Sansa had unexpectedly been much more scandalized by the fixing of the boxing matches than the rumors concerning the sponsoring lord’s overfondness of both his horses and stable of athletes, not to mention the unthinkable combination of the two. The thrill he’d gotten upon that realization was the first indication that he could lose himself to this slip of a girl. The attraction was superficial at first, but even in that first encounter he admired her wit and poise. His improper interest only deepened over time. With fascination he watched her grow into herself, adapting to the harshness of her new environment, beaten down under cruelty but emerging stronger for it, slowly changing under its influence in a way others would consider corruption, but to him represented only evolution. Seeing her fall under Joffrey’s questionable allure had been disquieting. He had enough men infiltrated into the Baratheon security forces to keep an eye on her, but they often couldn’t do much more than ensure she wasn’t permanently damaged by the selfish little shit. He wanted to see her free of the Lannisters but couldn’t make that decision for her; the choice needed to be hers alone, though waiting for her to make it had been agonizing. Despite his occupation, or perhaps because of it, Petyr was used to ignoring temptation, but he’d encountered no greater threat to his self-control than Sansa, and his longing for her was nearly unbearable at times. He rejoiced when she finally came to him.

The fact that, rather than run away from him, she accepted him after the confession of the depths of his depravity--and moreover been turned on by it--was better even than her cries while she milked every drop of his seed from him. The only downside of the revelation was the hit his productivity had taken since, his current dilemma a perfect example. He needed to get this data sorted through before meeting with Olenna Tyrell later in the afternoon. The old battleaxe was a skilled negotiator, doubly so when it came to her favorite offspring, her granddaughter. Without even looking at the photo, however, all he could think of at the moment was feeling the rough, cum-soaked white cotton of Sansa's knickers under his tongue, sucking her flavor through it until he tore them off to taste the soft, sweet flesh beneath.

 _Fuck._ He palmed his persistent erection; it was as if two prior bouts of self-indulgence hadn’t quenched his thirst at all. He was better than this, he knew; he could run non-linear calculations for economic forecasting whilst directing orgies, for fucks sake. The problem was he didn’t _want_ to control himself when it came to Sansa. Maybe he’d just take quick peek, he still had time--

The commotion right outside his door distracted him from thoughts both recreational and pecuniary. Adjusting himself as best he could, he stood and made his way toward the ruckus. Upon opening the door, he ascertained the source of the noise to be one of the Goodbrothers arguing with a Redwyne, though the men fell silent at his entrance. He briefly considered trying to figure out which subset of siblings he was addressing but decided it was too taxing at the moment. “What is it?” he snapped.

The Redwyne spoke first, “I’m sorry sir, but there’s a girl claiming to be a Miss Stark to see you.”

 _Sansa?_ That made little sense. She had her own set of keys and passcodes, and even if he’d been in a meeting with someone who shouldn’t see her, she certainly had access to the private rooms behind his office. She needn’t have waited at all, she could’ve been up here in his office by now, he could have been _in_ her in his office by now… He walked back over to his desk to stand in front of the bank of screens displaying the club’s various rooms. There was indeed a Stark sister standing by the main elevators, but not the one he’d ever expect to come calling on him. Additionally, she was accompanied by--if he wasn’t mistaken--the Waters boy. He grinned to himself. He couldn’t imagine what would prompt the girl to seek him out but was sure whatever it was would prove highly entertaining. “Let her in,” he called through the open door.

“Sir?” The Goodbrother poked his head in the doorway, looking confused. Littlefinger’s gaze hardened. He didn’t like repeating himself.

“Yes, sir,” the Redwyne answered from behind the other man. He then disappeared to carry out the task, proving himself marginally more intelligent by the second. The Goodbrother trailed after him dumbly.

Petyr tidied up his desk, tucking away anything remotely compromising, closing the lid of his laptop and shutting off the monitoring equipment for the moment. He smoothly slipped on and buttoned his suit jacket, then retrieved a stick of gum from a pocket to freshen his breath. He liked to be presentable, especially for those he knew despised him. He waited by the door for his guests to arrive, and they did not disappoint. Arya Stark descended on his office like a mini stormcloud, glaring and hissing profanity at the guards escorting her, attended by her quiet but protective shadow. Her temper abated not a bit when she spied Petyr. He smiled politely in greeting. “It’s good to see you again Miss Stark. Come in, please. ” The girl stomped past his outstretched hand with nary a hint of acknowledgement. Waters likewise only glowered at him as he passed by. Ignoring the utter lack of manners they were displaying, Petyr endeavored to remain a welcoming host. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he suggested, returning to his desk.

The Stark girl fairly threw herself into a chair, but Baratheon’s bastard chose instead to stand behind her with his arms crossed, muscles flexed like some sort of bouncer. The intimidation tactic was a bit obvious, and undercut by the truly terrible facial hair the boy was attempting to grow. Petyr could give him advice, but thought it wouldn’t be received in the helpful spirit in which it was intended. Petyr waited a moment, meeting the sulking teenager’s intense stare, then asked, “Would you like something to drink?” He received only silence in reply. He tried offering options. “Water? Soda?” He smirked. “Milk?”

The girl just continued to glare, fidgeting so she touched as little of the chair as possible as if she could catch a venereal disease from the furniture alone. He was half-tempted to tell her he ensured that both the facilities and his employees were kept meticulously clean, but doubted it would ease her mind. “Does your father know you're here?” It was the middle of a school day, presumably, and he doubted this little field trip was sanctioned.

The jab finally provoked the furious child into speaking. “Stay away from my sister, Littlefinger, or else,” she growled at him.

Oh, this was fucking _adorable._ A vision of Sansa riding him in that chair popped into his head (hardly singular, he’d made sure to take her on every surface in the room at least once), and he had the sudden urge to see how many Starks he could get to sit in it while warning him off her. He was supposed to confer with her father at some point in the next few days; it seemed a change of venue was in order. “Pardon?” he replied in a faint stab at ignorance.

“I don’t like the way you look at her. She already has to deal with one pile of dickcheese fucking up her life, she doesn’t need another.” The girl would clearly do anything for her sister, a sentiment he could relate to.

He attempted to mollify his diminutive accuser. “My utmost priority in this whole endeavor is your sister’s wellbeing--”

“If I ever find out you’ve hurt her, I’ll feed you your own cock.”

He wanted to retort that Sansa was much more partial to the taste than he himself was, but thought that restraint was more advisable under the circumstances, at least this once. It was an unfamiliar feeling.  “I can assure you--”

Again, before he could launch into a pack of lies concerning his intentions toward Sansa that her sister probably wouldn’t believe anyway, she interrupted him: “ _Feed. You. Your. Own. Cock_. Am I making myself clear?” the girl spat, the fury of a thousand tiny suns behind it. The stance of the boy standing over her was equally defiant, but his eyes betrayed an apprehension which suggested he at least possessed the sense to fear him that his miniature companion did not. Being from Flea Bottom, Waters should be more than familiar with what Baelish was capable of. He stood abruptly, causing the boy to flinch, but Sansa’s sister didn’t so much as blink.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he inquired, tone still carefully neutral.

“Just leave her the hell alone.” She crossed her arms, mirroring the boy looming over her.

“Yes, Miss Stark, you’ve made your point quite thoroughly. Can I offer you transportation anywhere? Back to school, perhaps?” He raised an eyebrow.

The girl’s glare became comically savage. “Arsehat,” she muttered, launching herself from the chair and back out the door. Her brawny protector was frozen for a moment before following her, as if he wasn’t entirely sure they were being allowed to leave the room alive after threatening and insulting him. It was a reasonable thought; he’d killed people for far lighter infractions. The younger girl was fortunate his fondness for Sansa afforded her such leniency. Besides, he tried to avoid bloodshed in his office; he rather liked this carpet. He watched their departure--as loud and vituperative as their entrance had been--with amusement. He’d been less than pleased when Sansa had informed him what she’d disclosed to her sister, but if he’d known how funny the consequences were going to be he’d have been less vocal in airing his concerns. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took a lot longer than I anticipated due to a combination of real-life events and the unfortunate fact that while I find pen and paper better inspiration than a computer, my handwriting is atrocious and I often have to spend time interpreting what I could have meant later while typing it up. It was particularly terrible this time around, so thanks for your patience. I can promise I have an ending in mind for this story, probably 4 or 5 more chapters. Thanks to everyone for reading and leaving wonderful comments!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Please forgive me if I lash out_  
>  _trapped in this world, this cage of doubt_  
>  _Your love's the only thing that's true_  
>  _I know you'll be there to lick my wounds_  
>  _And I howl_  
>  -The Unlikely Candidates, _Howl_

_A subsequent application concerning the same subject as the relevant overseas application, filed in the same country, shall be considered the relevant overseas application (of which the filing date is the starting date of the period of priority), if at the time of the subsequent application._..

  
The words of her textbook started to blur into one another, becoming even more opaque than they usually were. Sansa tried rubbing her eyes to focus, but it accomplished nothing but to increase the pressure behind them to a roar. _Chocolate_. She really, really needed chocolate. She opened the drawer in her desk that usually held her secret stash only to come up empty. She got up to search in her closet for her backup supply--sent over in regular care packages by her mother which she actually got to eat now that she could hide them from her sister--only to find it devoid of any sweets as well. A quick glance out the window revealed a sliver of daylight left. Sansa calculated that she could afford a quick run to the corner store to replenish her food supply, and energy along with it.

  
“Jeyne, do you want anything? I'm going to the place down the street to grab snacks,” she asked her roommate while slipping on her shoes. Jeyne just shook her head no, appearing to be more occupied by her phone that the book open in front of her on the bed. Sansa shrugged, put on her coat, and headed outside. She met a few people on her way through the building, exchanging cautious greetings with them. The unrelenting attention had died down in the ensuing days since the scandal broke, fortunately, but Sansa still felt more visible than before.

  
The shortcut to the off-license took her through an alley between two buildings, which was a bit sketchy but well-lit and used often by the other students who lived in her dorm. She herself traversed it at least a couple times a day out of convenience and thought little of it. Reaching her destination without issue, she picked up the requisite number of chocolate bars that would sustain her for a few days' worth of papers, at least, and added a soda and packet of crisps for good measure. She exchanged money and polite conversation with the familiar clerk then bundled up her supplies for the journey home. It had gotten considerably darker and a bit colder in the short interval she was in the shop, so she resolved to make the trip back at a swifter pace.

  
As she rounded the blind corner, lost in the song playing through her headphones, a smelly hand clamped over her face and an arm wrapped uncomfortably tight around her torso, a cold, sharp edge digging into her throat. She froze, clutching her purchases to her chest, too shocked to even think of reaching for the knife in her coat pocket. All the self-defense training Petyr had painstakingly imparted on her fled her mind like it had never been there. He’d be so disappointed in her--if she managed to live through this, that is. “Scream and I’ll cut your pretty throat, d’ya understand?” a rough voice hissed in her ear.

  
He dragged her backwards behind the dumpster then pivoted, throwing her against the wall. The stinging impact jarred her back to herself, but by then, it was too late; she was too far away from him to do anything but stare at the knife in his hand. The man who’d attacked her was unfamiliar; cruel eyes set deep in a porcine face framed by dirty hair and unkempt beard, heavily built and shabbily dressed. She eyed the space on either side of him but there wasn’t enough room to slip by. Her phone lay behind him, far out of reach next to her discarded shopping, and even then there was a high probability it was broken, shattered on the concrete.

  
He gave her a malicious smile, then, unexpectedly, reached into a pocket with the hand not holding the knife and started flipping pieces of what looked like paper at her feet from it--photographs. She bent down to pick them up and her stomach dropped. The first picture showed Petyr’s face clearly, backing her into a room. Sansa’s was obscured, but her unmistakable red hair gave her away. In the next Petyr had bent his head to her chest, and she’d thrown her own to the side, her profile in ready view. The sequence continued, outlining their tryst in stop-motion animation as Petyr set her on a table and began undressing her as she did the same to him. The idea that this horrid man had seen her naked, performing acts she'd never intended to share with anyone else but Petyr, made her gut twist sideways.

  
“What do you want?” she asked with dread.

  
Instead of answering her, he licked his lips and eyed her obscenely. “Is he paying you, or are you just a cock-hungry slut?”

  
Sansa shook her head, unable to formulate any response as the damning pile built up at her feet. His grin widened, revealing stained, uneven teeth. “What do you think the king would give me for these?”

  
“Please, I don’t have any money,” she begged, desperately trying to think of a way out of the corner she’d been backed into.

  
His pig eyes narrowed as he sneered at her, “Your boyfriend does. Tell him I want a million up front.” He hacked up in his throat then spat on the ground. “I have loads more where that came from. Videos too, if you like.” He tossed a card on the haphazard stack of photographs in front of her. “If you don’t call that number ready with the first installment by noon tomorrow, I’m sending the lot of it to His Grace.”

  
She held her voice steady. “Okay, I’ll do it. Just please, let me go.”

  
He stepped toward her, knife level with her eye. “Oh no, I’m going to need a little down payment from you. Let’s see what that pretty mouth Littlefinger keeps all to himself can do.”

  
Bile rose in her throat as she looked at him defiantly. He brought the blade within millimeters of her eye, close enough that she had to look past it to see the ugly expression on his face. “On your knees, cunt,” he ordered, his putrid breath burning in her nostrils. As she made to comply, Sansa intentionally lurched forward, having to catch herself with a hand on filthy pavement, and used the motion to slip the knife from her coat pocket with the other, hiding it in the oversized sleeve. He gave her a disdainful leer but missed the maneuver. He undid his fly eagerly with a free hand, and Sansa had to hold back a flinch, choosing to glare at him rather than acknowledge that he was fisting himself obscenely. “Open up, girlie,” he sang in a sickeningly sweet voice.

  
She reached for his exposed genitals reluctantly with one hand, trying not to gag at the stench of rancid sweat and stale tobacco, sensing his anticipation, and used his distraction to bring the concealed knife up, flip it open, and hurriedly stab it into the area of his groin where she guessed his femoral artery would be. The man roared in pain, staggering back away from her. “Fucking bitch! I’m gonna kill you--”

  
Sansa jumped to her feet and lunged past him but only made it as far as the main alleyway before she felt a hand clamp around her arm in a crushing grip and haul her back. She brought her knife across blindly it as she twisted back toward him, and he let go with a howl before reaching for her again, his other hand still swinging the weapon he’d threatened her with wildly. She rushed forward, ducking under his outstretched limbs with an arm held protectively over her head, the other at the ready as she surged upwards, pushing from her knees. She felt his blade slide up and down the back of her blocking arm in a numbing burn, a fist glancing off her shoulder, but it didn’t stop her from burying cold steel in his neck to the hilt and withdrawing it reflexively. Blood sprayed, poured from rent flesh as he collapsed to his knees, choking, and tugged her down with him awkwardly. She pushed herself free, knocking him on his back, life still pouring from his upper thigh and spurting from his neck in crimson arcs with each beat of his heart. The man stared at her, terror in his eyes, and she could do nothing but watch as his movements grew lethargic, the egress of red fluid slowing as it exhausted its own supply.

  
Footsteps approached from behind, and she whirled around to face them, bloody knife still clutched in her hand. She saw the drawn gun first, and prepared to charge at the new intruder in desperation, but when she looked at his face she realized the tall, dark-haired man with a hooked nose looked familiar. It was one of Petyr’s employees, and he was aiming the weapon at the now motionless man on the ground next to Sansa rather than her. “Are you alright, milady?” he questioned in a gruff voice.

  
A shuffling noise at her back made her turn quickly again, but this time she recognized the newcomer immediately as another from Petyr’s club. The Summer Islander carefully re-holstered his own weapon as he bent down to check the would-be blackmailer’s pulse.

  
“He was going to kill me,” she said stupidly.

  
“Are you injured?” the second man asked, concern in his dark eyes.

  
She looked down at herself and saw much more red than she was expecting. “I--most of it’s his, I think.”

  
After shaking his head at his companion, the second man stood, approaching her slowly, and offered her his coat, which confused her until she realized it would be idiotic to walk out into the street looking like she’d just stabbed a man to death. “Please, Miss Stark, we need to get you out of here,” he urged, kindly but insistent.

  
Taking the coat from him with numb fingers, she shrugged it on over her own soiled, ruined jacket with hands that should be shaking but were somehow steady. He led her from the alley with a hand close to her back but not quite touching it, as if he knew any contact right now would make her uncomfortable. She knew she should be freaking out after ending the life of another in such violent fashion, but she only felt detached, impassive. He escorted her to a dark, nondescript car, and went to the trunk to retrieve something before joining her in it. She buckled her seatbelt automatically, staring ahead absently.

  
“Miss?” The word seemed to reach her from underwater.

  
“What?” She turned to look at him, and her eyes felt sluggish and unfocused to her. He gestured to the stack of bandages in his hands. “Oh, thank you,” she murmured. Feeling foolish, she took them to hold firm pressure over the cuts on her arm after she slipped it out of the ruined coat and tattered shirt sleeves. She looked down at her hands covered in red. The blood was starting to dry and felt tacky when she rubbed her fingers together. It occurred to her that she still didn’t know the identity of her rescuers, and thought it rather rude. She turned to the man beside her apologetically. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

  
He looked back at her with a slight smile after he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. “Xho, milady.” His voice was deep and smooth with a light accent.

  
“Nice to meet you,” she replied politely, barely holding in the bark of laughter at the absurdity. A thought struck her--Jeyne would be expecting her back sometime soon. She reached into her jeans pocket reflexively, but of course came up empty. “Do you happen to know where my phone is?”

  
“I’m sorry but it’s broken.” He glanced at her apologetically. She nodded, unsurprised. With nothing else to do, she turned to look out the window, unseeing. Xho made a few calls, keeping his voice low as to not disturb her, though little penetrated the fog wrapped around her mind. When they pulled into the garage of The Mockingbird, it was deserted, empty even of the regular staff. The man ushered her gently to the elevators, and used her key to bring them to Petyr’s flat on the top floor.

  
“Mr. Baelish should be here shortly,” he reassured her. “We’ve got to get you cleaned up, miss.”

  
She handed over the coat she’d borrowed, and her own jacket without protest. She also gingerly peeled off the jumper she had on underneath to give to him for disposal, which left her only in a tee shirt. She looked down at her feet, and was chagrined to see she’d been tracking blood all over the floor. She toed off her shoes carefully, and was about to apologize when the elevator opened behind him.

  
“Xho! What in the Seven Hells--” Petyr trailed off as the other man turned and stepped aside, revealing her pitiful, bloodsoaked form. He was still for a beat before rushing over to her and pulling her to himself; she’d never seen him move so quickly. He gripped her so tightly it almost hurt, then pulled back at assess her with a concerned, critical eye. “What happened?” he asked, hands roaming over her in search of injuries.

  
“I was just going to the shops. A man stopped me in the alley, he had pictures of us,” she mumbled, her tongue tripping over itself. “He said if we didn’t pay he’d give them to Joffrey. And then he tried to…” The word ‘rape’ stuck in her throat, but from Petyr’s hands clenching on her upper arms, she guessed he could tell what she meant. She inhaled deeply, shuddering, before she was able to continue. “So I stabbed him in the leg, then the neck…” _And he bled to death on the ground in front of me with his dick hanging out_ , she didn’t say, the notion too terrible and yet horrifically funny all at once. Perhaps she was going mad. Petyr’s head swiveled to glare at Xho murderously, as if he were personally responsible for the unfortunate events.

  
“It’s being handled as we speak, sir--” the man’s deep voice never wavered, but she could feel his anxiety at being pinned under his employer’s stare.

  
“It should never have happened in the first place!” Petyr snarled at him.

  
Sansa felt her eyes start to burn. “I’m sorry. I should have gotten away but I froze up. I’m so sorry, Petyr,” she stammered, her voice breaking, and the dam that had been holding her shock at bay shattered along with it at last. Her left hand started shaking where it was curled against his chest, but when she tried to cover it with the right she realized the tremor had escaped to take hold of the rest of her body. She tried to step back, afraid of getting blood all over him, but he only pulled her closer.

  
“No, no, no,” he murmured into her ear, rubbing her back soothingly. “I’m so proud of you, my brave little wolf. You did so well, sweetling.” His voice wrapped around her as a comforting warmth, though it wasn’t quite enough to quell the shivers wracking her body. Sansa tried to hold herself together but her knees betrayed her, making her lurch into Petyr. He caught her sagging form, shifting her weight in his arms until he was able to lift her up to cradle her to his chest.

  
“Get Corvus,” he snapped to the other man, who nodded sharply before leaving. He carried her to the shower and turned the taps on full blast before stepping in it with her, both of them still fully clothed. She flexed her shaky legs to test them, thinking he meant to set her down, but instead he sunk to his knees then slowly lowered them to the floor with her still held against him in his lap, her head tucked under his chin, and let the hot water wash over them. After a while, he began helping her strip the sodden clothes from her body before removing his own, throwing the lot away to the other corner of the large shower stall. The water cascading off their bodies went from red to pink to clear. Petyr helped her stand on more settled limbs, then stepped out to retrieve something from one of the cabinets under the sink. He returned with several individually wrapped sponges with bristles on one side. “I’m sorry, this stuff is terrible, but it’s the best for getting rid of evidence.”

  
He opened one, holding it under the shower spray and squeezing it several times until it lathered up. Grasping her hands loosely, he used the bristled side to clean under her fingernails, then ran the spongy side over the rest of her body, even her hair, working carefully around the cuts on her arm. She left it uncovered at his prompting; the bandaging wasn’t doing much at this point anyway. He repeated the process with a fresh sponge on himself. When he was finished, he approached her apologetically. “It’s going to hurt, but we have to wash the wounds out,” he said, turning the water to tepid. She gritted her teeth as she let the water slash into the openings in her skin. It burned far worse than the initial cuts, and she focused on Petyr drawing soothing patterns on her back in an attempt to ignore it. When he thought it clean enough, he turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Following him, she noticed the rivulet of water streaming from their pile of clothing was almost as dark as the blood still dripping from her arm, cutting a branching path over the lightly colored tile toward the drain like an artery. He handed her several fluffy towels and more bandaging to press over her forearm once more. By the time they were dressed, she heard voices coming from the main room. She walked down the hallway, curious, Petyr close behind her with a hand on her back.

  
A short, white-haired man stood over the kitchen table, unpacking medical supplies from a bag while chatting with Xho. He looked up when he noticed their arrival, and greeted her with a kindly look on his lined face, eyes intelligent beneath bushy brows. “Hello, Miss. I’m Dr. Corvus.”

  
“Hello,” she answered, eyeing the instruments she knew from experience helping her mother were purposed for suturing.

  
“May I examine your wounds?” He gestured for her to sit at the table in front of him. She sat as he pulled a chair up next to her, turning her arm to be held in his gloved hands on the table. He removed the covering and explored the cuts delicately before humming to himself. He looked up at her and said kindly, “I’m going to need to sew these up so they’ll heal. Is that alright?”

  
She nodded, having guessed as much from how deep they were. Petyr stepped closer to the chair behind her, his hands coming to settle on her shoulders.

  
“Are you up to date on your vaccinations?” the physician inquired, getting his sterile workspace set up.

  
Sansa nodded again, watching his wrinkled hands pick through instruments adroitly. “Yes, I had to be to start school.”

  
“Excellent. Do you have access to the source’s blood to check for communicable diseases?” Corvus raised an eyebrow.

  
“We’re getting it now,” Petyr replied, still tense behind her, sending Xho a look which prompted him to slip quietly from the room. She felt indebted to him and the other man, and hoped they wouldn’t bear the brunt of Petyr’s wrath.

  
“Good.” The physician drew up anesthetic, but paused before injecting it. “Did you clean the area well?” he asked.

  
“Yes,” Petyr answered for her again. He hadn’t strayed further than an arm’s length from her the whole time, but she found it reassuring rather than stifling. Corvus just nodded knowingly, then started numbing the cuts; the medication stung before deadening frayed nerves. Petyr’s hands started kneading the tight muscle of her shoulders beneath them in comfort, and she leaned her head back into the soft cotton covering his chest. The doctor worked quickly but with precision, driving the threaded needle from side to side, drawing the skin edges together neatly with each stitch. It was odd; she felt the pressure, a pulling and tugging on her skin, but without the pain that should have accompanied it. He noticed her eyes following the movement of his hands and smiled up at her gently. “You don’t have to look, you know.”

  
She shrugged with the shoulder not attached to the arm being sewn shut. For some reason she couldn’t help watching the mending of her flesh as if the closing wounds could draw the shed blood back into themselves, restore life to the slab of flesh she’d left lying in the alley, erase the bruises on her knees and the memory of the man’s foul touch, divert her from her poorly chosen path--a foolish notion, but comforting all the same. Soon, the doctor was finished, tying and cutting the tails of the final tight knot with a small flourish. He wiped her arm down once more before wrapping it up. He started to tidy the area as he relayed his instructions; “Keep this dry for the next twenty four hours. After that, try not to get it soaked or dirty for the next week. The stitches can come out then. Do you need--”

  
“I’ll do it,” Petyr’s voice interrupted him, rumbling through her skull where it rested against his sternum.

  
Corvus nodded at him, and slipped a card across the table to Sansa. “Please don’t hesitate to contact me with any concerns, at any time.”

  
“Thank you,” Sansa said, managing to give him a small but grateful smile in return.

  
“How much?” Petyr asked.

  
The physician just shook his head good-naturedly. “Nothing, dear boy. Not for this.” Petyr might have argued but the man waved him off easily. Whatever history was between them intrigued her. As Corvus was leaving the room, Xho returned, handing him what appeared to be several vials of blood on his way out before setting a stack of photos and a phone identical to her broken one on the table in front of her. Petyr took the empty seat next to her, sifting through the pictures analytically.

  
Sansa made sure to give the man a grateful look. “Thank you, Mr. Xho. And please pass along my thanks to your colleague as well.”

  
“You’re very welcome, Miss Stark.” Xho bowed, then left, Petyr eyeing him with an expression that implied the issue was far from settled. Sansa picked up the phone and unlocked it. They'd done a good job cloning her phone, even matching the case she had. She wouldn't put it past Petyr to keep such things on hand just in case. She texted Jeyne to say she decided to take a break from studying and wouldn’t be home for awhile then placed the device back on the table. It was fortunate that her roommate wasn’t the most observant of people.

  
She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself defensively as she watched Petyr sort through the pictures. “How did he get those, Petyr?”

  
“I’ll figure it out,” he tried to reassure her, leaning in and putting a hand on her thigh, his other coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking over her cheek to wipe a stray tear from it. She inhaled deeply, resolved to cry no more over the loathsome man’s spilled blood. Petyr was gazing at her with an expression she wasn't certain she'd seen before, a combination of barely controlled fury and something else intense but murky, inscrutable. “It won't happen again,” he vowed, his voice rough, almost gravelly.

  
“How can you promise that? He said there were lots more. If he wasn't working alone…” she bit the inside of her cheek to ground herself, reigning in the fear the thought provoked. 

  
Petyr’s fingers tightened in her hair, the hand on her leg curling to hook behind her knee, tugging her to himself. She let herself be be pulled into his lap, perched gingerly straddling his knees and clutching his shoulders for balance, wary of the chair in which they sat not having been intended for double occupancy. Petyr had no such reservations, however pushing her flush against him with the palm splayed on her back to kiss her, uncaring of the ominous crack emitting from the complaining piece of furniture, the press of his mouth over hers more simple connection than anything else. When they separated for a chance to breathe, she noticed her bandaged forearm beginning to ache as the anesthetic wore off, and wriggled her wrist to stretch it out. Petyr let go of the nape of her neck to clutch it gently, bringing it to his mouth to kiss her unmarred knuckles.

  
“You had men following me,” she said, half-accusingly.

  
“Yes, and I won’t apologize for it, especially after what’s happened,” he growled, eyes flashing at her dangerously. His gaze traced over the covered wounds of the arm he held before returning to meet hers. “You’ll have to hide this. You should stay here tonight.”

  
Sansa bristled, annoyed that he was telling her something she was already more than well aware of. “You’re acting like I’ve never had to conceal wounds before. I’ve handled a lot worse than this,” she bit back. Rationally she knew he wasn't questioning her competence, but she was still trying to put herself back together, clutching at pieces that seemed to be slipping through her fumbling grasp. Reminding him of Joffrey’s handiwork was evidently the wrong thing to do, though, as his expression darkened, fingers digging into her back. She tensed, preparing to defend herself should he lash out at her. He closed his eyes and inhaled, holding his breath for a moment before releasing it, his gaze softer when he reopened them, his grip loosening around her. She relaxed into him in turn, resting her head on his shoulder.

  
“It’s almost over,” he hummed into her neck, his beard rasping over her skin as he traced it with his lips. She suppressed a shudder and couldn’t help but dread he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's gonna get real from here on out, so I humbly ask for you to bear with me. As always, comments are much appreciated, and thanks for reading!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There's a fork in the road in front of me,_   
>  _At the crossroads of identity._   
>  _The Devil is standing to the left._   
>  _He says "Either way, they both lead to death."_
> 
> _And the high road's steady and steep,_  
>  _And the low road's easy and deep._  
>  _Guess I'll follow, follow, follow my feet._  
>  _Guess I'll follow, follow, follow my feet._  
>  -The Unlikely Candidates, _Follow My Feet_

Littlefinger watched as the woman curled up on his chest breathed in and out softly, her beautiful face relaxed and untroubled in slumber. He himself likely wouldn’t sleep tonight, his mind pulling in too many directions to settle down. He savored the warm weight of Sansa’s body against him, letting his eyes trace over her, envisioning beneath the covers the skin he wanted to touch but couldn’t without waking her. Every time his gaze rested on the white bandage wrapped around her left arm peeking out from under the blankets, he felt his jaw clench. When he thought about what might have happened if his fierce girl hadn’t been so resourceful--rage made the hand not threaded through her hair, caressing the nape of her neck, clutch the sheets underneath him so tight he might tear them. It was the same fury which had caused her to flinch away from him earlier, but none of it was meant for her. He felt nothing but pride for her; he’d seen hardened criminals not react half as well as she had to a first kill. He’d been unfortunately unable to articulate so at the time, a rare occasion for him to be at a loss for words. A great portion of his anger was directed inwards, stemming from his own failure keep her safe; he'd gotten careless, drunk on her as he often was, and the lapse had put her in danger. He would not let it happen again. That ire was surpassed only by the wrath he held for whoever was behind the attack on her. The blackmail attempt was amateurish, almost laughably so, which made Petyr certain it wasn’t about money at all. He’d been waiting for Varys to use Sansa against him but if this was the eunuch’s move, the play was clumsy and unworthy of him. He wanted to rampage through the city and tear anyone who might be responsible to pieces with his bare hands--

The phone on the nightstand beside him buzzed, interrupting his violent thoughts. He reached over carefully--so as not to disturb Sansa--to retrieve it and saw the message he’d been waiting for. He opened a video feed to verify his guest’s identity, then typed in the code to allow him elevator access to the flat.  Sansa was the only person on the planet Baelish truly trusted other than himself. He acknowledged his faith in her as a weakness that would likely be his death should she ever betray him, but had made peace with it long ago. The man he was about to meet came closer than any of his other employees to approximating a modicum of trust.

Regretfully, Petyr began to extricate himself from Sansa’s form atop him, giving her an apologetic kiss on the forehead and promise to return shortly in response to her murmur of protest as he rolled out of bed. There was no reason for her to be troubled for this; she deserved to rest after all that had happened, and had been sleeping soundly since she’d finally succumbed to the crash of adrenaline in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t bother with dressing, instead slipping on a bathrobe in a faint concession to modesty. The slight chill of the flat would keep him sharp and awake, and he didn’t anticipate being parted from the warmth of the siren in his bed for long.

He gathered his thoughts on the short journey to where his guest was waiting. When he’d had the opportunity to view the material the blackmailer had brought, Petyr had recognized the room depicted immediately as one of his own VIP offerings, but noticed that the camera angle of it was all wrong. It seemed his initial guess that his intranet had been compromised was incorrect, which had implications both favorable and not. While it meant his private data was safe, someone had managed to plant their own device in the room, for the Seven knew how long, and that virtually guaranteed a member of his own organization was involved. The task he would assign to his visitor tonight would be vital in putting his own house in order.

When he entered the open area of the flat, the man stood from where he’d been seated in one of the chairs in front of the desk, a habitual but unnecessary gesture of respect Baelish had never managed to break him of. He waved a hand in acknowledgement, but the well-built figure only sat after he himself took his place behind the desk. Littlefinger’s penetrating gaze studied the familiar features of Lothor Brune as the man stared back at him impassively; close-cropped gray hair framed a rugged face with a squashed nose many times broken and repaired and square jaw rarely set in anything other than stolid neutrality. The ex-special forces officer conducted himself with the highest level of mercenary professionalism Petyr had ever encountered in another human being. As the man entrusted with the most vital of the tasks Petyr needed done, Brune was also the employee he kept the closest eye on personally. It was a convenient arrangement. Baelish had spent quite a bit of time vetting the man a few hours prior, and was as certain as he could be that Brune had not betrayed him. “You made good time,” he observed evenly.

“You said it was of the utmost urgency, sir,” Brune replied in a deep monotone.

Petyr glowered, letting cold fury color his inflection. “We have an unacceptable breach in security. I want it found and dealt with as quickly and quietly as possible.” The man nodded, awaiting further instruction. Petyr leaned forward to slide a photograph of Sansa’s attacker across the desk to him, the swine’s face cleaned of blood but still frozen in pained shock. “Do you recognize him?”

Brune picked up the picture, studying it carefully before placing it back on the table with a shake of his head. “No, sir.”

Petyr eyed him closely, finding truth in the statement. “That man had compromising material in his possession that he should not have been able to get, and tried leveraging it for money.” He gestured toward the stack of photographs facedown on the corner of the desk closest to Brune. The taciturn man picked the pile up and started flipping through it. If he was surprised by the subject matter, he didn’t show it. Petyr’s affection for Sansa--who he knew was referred to almost always as ‘ the boss’s girl’ in hushed tones amongst his employees, to his amusement--had been well-known to Brune for quite a while; indeed, he was quite grateful to the skilled operative for delivering Trant and the other corrupt officers to gift to her, and had rewarded him handsomely for it. When Brune looked back up at him, Littlefinger continued, “Unfortunately for him, he chose his target poorly, and was killed before any further information could be obtained.” He felt no need to mention Sansa’s role in events at this point in time, as Brune would be fully briefed later. “He had nothing on him but the photographs he threatened to sell and a knife. Find who he was working for,” Baelish commanded. The former soldier nodded coolly in understanding.

He opened a drawer to retrieve the camera that had been planted on his property, tossing it on the desk in front of him. Brune picked it up to examine it as thoroughly as he had the other pieces of the puzzle he was being assigned. It been easy enough to find once Baelish knew where to look, tracing the perspective to a light fixture in the corner of the room. He’d considered leaving it in place to throw off the would-be blackmailers, but reasoned the lackey’s disappearance would be noticeable enough for it not to matter. The device was of high quality but a generation behind the most current technology used in intelligence circles, widely available on the black market and difficult to trace. The signal piggybacked on the open network he offered to unwitting patrons to extract valuable information from their devices, and the irony was as galling as it was fitting. He gave the surveillance equipment a baleful look and intoned with considerable annoyance, “This was in the Red Room. I need to know how long it's been there and what else they might've gotten from it. Search every inch of this building for more. I want them found and disabled immediately. The video feeds will need to be thoroughly checked as well.”

Petyr had gone over three weeks worth of recordings prior to their tryst in that particular venue himself before conceding in the face of the sheer volume of data. He hadn't really appreciated just how many people wandered in and out of a room on any particular day, and most of them--at least in his establishment--carried themselves with a considerable air of shiftiness. He continued flatly, “I want full investigations of everyone in my employ. Clear Ros and Olyvar first, then Xho and the Kettleblacks. They’re already involved. If you need more resources, I’ll assign them. You’ll all be working double shifts until this is resolved.”

The man’s intelligent eyes met his own with gravity as he nodded once more. “Understood, sir.”

Petyr raised an eyebrow, his expression hardening. “I don’t imagine I need to stress the importance of this task to you?”

Brune shook his head, replying, “No, Mr. Baelish.”

He gave Brune one final assessing look, then nodded a dismissal, satisfied for the moment. He watched the man gather the necessary materials for his investigation, muttering “sir,” to him respectfully before departing. He glanced at his computer, then the clock displaying an ungodly early hour. There were more avenues to explore, and several tasks in particular requiring his attention related to contingency plans he was loathe to use but would be forced to if Varys really was behind this new threat. He decided they could wait until morning, and made his way back to bed. In his absence, Sansa had turned on her side away from the space he’d left vacant and buried herself further under the duvet. A fond smile tugged at his lips at the sight. Discarding his robe, he slid back under the covers beside her, bringing his arms around her gently and gathering her to himself. He buried his nose in the red locks in front of him, inhaling deeply to savor her scent. He would pass the remaining few hours to dawn listening to her breathe.

*************

The dull ache of her left forearm woke Sansa from a blissful, dreamless sleep. The second sensation she became aware of was Petyr wrapped around her tightly, an arm across her abdomen, a hand cupping her breast, his morning wood pressed against her behind. She flexed her hand experimentally, clenching and unclenching to relieve the nagging pain. A thumb began to slowly rub over her nipple, teasing it to stiffen and distracting her from the discomfort of her injured limb. She wriggled her bottom in inquiry, intent on determining if the motion was purposeful or whether Petyr might be molesting her in his sleep again. The slight change in his breathing let her know it was the former. The hand resting on her stomach drew random patterns over her skin as it made its way down between her legs, fingers tracing her folds then slipping between them. The hand plucking at her nipple turned its attention to her other breast as he played with her clit, rolling it between dexterous fingers. Sansa started to rock her hips against him, feeling herself grow wet, arousal building to match his. She reached behind herself to grasp his cock, spreading precum over the swollen head with her thumb, rolling the foreskin back and feeling it glide up and down over the girthy shaft, growing even harder and thicker in her hand as he groaned appreciatively in her ear, thrusting against the contact. She shifted to give him better access, awaiting the delicious press of him inside her, but started to get impatient after a few moments when he failed to act. She moaned in annoyance; he could be a dreadful tease at times, the contrary git. When she tried to escalate matters herself using her grip on his erection, she was baffled to feel him pull away from her. She shuffled around in his now-stilled arms to look at him in confusion. “What?”

He was staring at her with concern, his hands retreating from much more interesting areas to settle at her waist. “Are you sure?”

What kind of asinine question was that after he'd gone to the trouble of getting her all worked up? She understood he was trying to be considerate of what she might be feeling after the events of yesterday, but she had no desire to be treated like a fragile, broken thing. The would-be extortionist had failed to take her life and her body against her will; she wasn't about to let him succeed in depriving her of the joys of sex. And Petyr clearly hadn't learned from the last time he tried making a decision like this for her that it was something she wouldn't tolerate. She pushed him on his back and slid over to straddle him, enjoying the feel of him hot and hard beneath her. She cocked an eyebrow, echoing an expression he so often employed. “Does this answer your question?”

Concern warred with desire in his face as he tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down with her palms flat against his chest, then dug her nails into pectoral muscle when he protested, making him shudder. She started swiveling her hips, pressing down with each stroke, her arousal coating his cock as she relished the delicious contact between them. She watched the line of crescents on his skin her fingers had made through the smattering of chest hair blanch then redden, and it sent even more heat to her aching sex. Lust won the battle over Petyr’s conscience, darkening his eyes and baring his teeth in a wicked grin. He started returning her motions with thrusts of his own, his hands clutched at her hips, until she decided she wanted more. She raised herself up on her knees to grasp his erection firmly and lower herself down on it, moaning as he filled her. She began rocking back and forth, finding a rhythm to chase her release. Petyr groaned beneath her when she clenched her walls around him with each upstroke, seemingly enthralled watching her pleasure herself on his cock and apparently content to concede to her wishes for the time being. That’s not to say he wasn’t an active participant--no one could ever accuse him of passivity. One of his hands crept to where they were joined to resume his attentions to her neglected clit, the other sliding around to knead at her ass, pivoting his hips in small circles to heighten the sensation. He murmured encouragement to her in raw, low tones, and as always his running commentary somehow managed to be even filthier than whatever act they were engaged in, reaching her in curses and broken phrases. “That’s it sweetling-- _fuck_ \--take what you need, take it all, fill that tight little pussy til I fucking drown in your cum-- _shite--_ want to drink it down for _days_ \--”

She sped up, feeling the tide of pleasure cresting, and he in turn redoubled his efforts, long digits rubbing furiously between her legs until she broke with a cry, the movements of his fingers and cock drawing out her orgasm until she slumped over him. Petyr lay still beneath her for a minute or so, waiting for her to recover, then rolled, flipping them over to exchange positions. He hooked her legs over his elbows then leaned over her, forcing her to fold up beneath him as he braced himself above her. He thrust back inside her forcefully and she cried out from the shock of it, still exquisitely sensitive from her recent release. She laced her arms around his neck, feeling the need to anchor herself as he started to move in deep, powerful strokes, pinning her to the bed.

Something had shifted between them, his earlier playfulness gone as he stared at her like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face, track the minute changes in her expression, muscles twitching under skin, hoarding every gasp and moan. The whole world shrank down to just the two of them, and all she could feel--hear, see, smell, touch, taste--was Petyr moving above her, in her. His pupils were blown wide, leaving only a rim of green at the edges as he focused on her, silent now save for rough, ragged breaths. She watched the movements of his cock in and out of her drenched cunt, the sight and sound holding an obscene kind of grace. Grasping the short hair at the back of his head, she tugged him even closer to bring his lips to hers, eliciting a groan from him as she bit and sucked at them, spurring him on to an almost brutal pace.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded hoarsely, his forehead pressed against hers, his hands digging into her sides. Even before she did so, she felt herself tightening around him, and it only took the slightest of pressures on her clit to send her over the precipice once again in a wave of heat that stole her breath and vision. Petyr drove himself into her for a few more deep, erratic strokes before filling her to the brim with his come, grunting her name into her ear. He settled atop her heavily for a moment before rolling off to the side, dragging her to lay draped over his chest, both breathing heavily. “How is your arm?” he asked, his fingers dipping into her cunt languidly and spreading his seed over her thighs, tracing arcane symbols in it like he was marking her.

“It hurts a bit,” she admitted, tugging at the bandage.

He frowned at her, taking her hand in his to inspect it. “I have pain meds if you want them.”

Sansa shrugged. “I’m ok for now, but I’ll keep it in mind.” She settled against him, the heavy beat of his heart soothing in her ear. She sighed, the not-unpleasant sharp tinge of sweat mixed with Petyr’s unique scent filling her nose. “The meeting at the Sept is in two days.”

“Yes,” he replied, his hand sweeping up and down her back.

She looked up at him. “What do we do?”

His gaze was steady and deep as he beheld her.  “Stick to the plan, and adjust if necessary.” His hand cupped her jaw to bring her in for a kiss. She wasn’t sure if he meant the gesture as reassurance or distraction, but submitted to it regardless, letting herself get lost in his touch.

*************

The volume of the small party’s footsteps echoing off the worn stone of the Great Sept made Sansa feel exposed despite the deserted state of the hallways they were passing through. The only sign thus far that the regal building was inhabited had been the dour man escorting them to the High Septon’s office, which would serve as neutral territory for the meeting between Sansa’s family and Joffrey’s. Sansa’s parents walked on either side of her protectively, with Maester Luwin and Maege Mormont bringing up the rearguard. Luwin had been her father’s legal counsel for decades, and even sparked Sansa’s own interest in studying law. Over the past few days, he'd painstakingly gone through the case with her and her parents, exploring possible outcomes and answering the many questions they had. She trusted his judgment and insight, and was grateful to have him on-hand for the negotiation. Bear Island’s stocky, silver-haired matron was a welcome addition as well; the woman had even given her a gruff hug when they’d met outside the Sept, her effusiveness surprising Sansa.

The section of the temple they were walking through was unfamiliar, being generally off-limits to the public. The paintings and tapestries depicting the Seven seemed to glare at her in silent condemnation as they passed-- _liar, murderer, whore._ As she’d grown up, the appeal of her mother’s religion had faded. Sansa remembered proudly reciting passages from _The Seven Pointed Star_ , debating the separate but collective nature of the gods in Sunday school, praying dutifully each night--all the trappings of a childish piety. Slowly, she realized the teachings were mostly just another book of fairy tales. The gods never answered her pleas, remaining silent in the face of her torment and degradation, and the men and women of the cloth were no more or less righteous than any others. She would still admit to finding the godswood peaceful, but it didn’t mean she kept her father’s faith either. Sansa wasn’t sure what she believed, other than the world was a cruel, pitiless place that devoured the weak and vulnerable; the only justice to be had was that which one made oneself.

The septon lead them on a journey with enough twists and turns that Sansa would have trouble replicating it. Finally, they stopped in front of an ornate door. The soft-spoken clergyman turned to address them while opening the it, “Please wait here, if you would.” When they stepped into the designated room, however, they found it already occupied.

“Lord Stark, Cat,” Petyr welcomed her parents with a smirk, turning away from the window he’d been looking out of upon their arrival. From the way her mother subtly recoiled and her father’s guilty look, Sansa couldn’t help but think the latter might have neglected to mention he would be joining them.

Maege was less restrained in her disapproval. “Can’t imagine why we’d require the services of a two-faced brothel-keep for this,” she huffed. “Are you here in case we have dire need for a hooker or a stab in the back?”

Petyr just bowed his head to her, smirking. “It never hurts to be prepared, Lady Mormont.”

His gaze settled on Sansa, his eyes matching the smile he gave her as he headed toward her. “Lady Sansa--” he began, but trailed off as both her parents stepped forward to intercept him, no doubt endeavoring to fend off the now customary kiss on the hand or cheek that never failed to rile them up. Luwin was silent but Maege grumbled; she thought the older woman might even shake a fist at him in warning. Petyr smirked at her from behind the wall of parental disapproval, which she returned with a quick flash of a smile and a nod. She was grateful he had convinced both her father and Tywin that his presence would be more useful than Roose Bolton’s, for completely opposing reasons of course. Though it was a risk, she conceded. The man who’d led them to the room bowed without commenting on the discord evident among their party, instead saying, “His Excellency will see you shortly,” eyeing them impassively as he left.

Her mother gestured for Sansa to sit in one of the chairs, but she was too restless. As the confrontation loomed, she felt herself becoming ill. She hadn’t slept well in the days since the attack. When she dreamt she often woke up drowning in blood, and could never remember whether it was hers or from the man she’d slaughtered--or both--when she was out of the nightmare. The resulting disruption played havoc with her stomach. “I’ll be right back,” she muttered, receiving concerned looks from all present. She sensed the question in Petyr’s expression but couldn’t afford to answer it, avoiding eye contact with him as she slipped from the room to find the toilets they’d passed earlier. Once inside, she made her way to a sink set in the stone counter. She turned the taps on high and leaned over it, closing her eyes, then gagged, spitting phlegm into the basin. She took several deep breaths before wetting a paper towel to dab at her lips without further smudging her makeup. The creak of the door opening startled her, but she turned toward it, hoping for half a second that it would be Petyr only to see her mother’s concerned face instead. She held in her disappointment, chastising herself; not even Petyr’s silver tongue could spin a tale believable enough to even the most gullible that would explain away his presence alone with her in the ladies room.

“Sansa? Are you okay? What’s the matter?” her mother asked with a frown, coming to stand next to her by the sink and placing a hand on her back, rubbing it lightly in comfort.

“Just nerves, I guess.” She shrugged less convincingly than she’d meant to.

Her mother noticed and sensed deeper issues troubling her. “Is there something else, luv?”

She swallowed down the confession that crawled up her throat like acid, the urge to come clean about how much peril she’d put them all in, the myriad misdeeds and sins that left literal and figurative blood dripping from her hands--from the war she’d helped to start by leading a king to slaughter to the depraved affair she’d been carrying on with her co-conspirator for months. She settled for partial truth to purge some of the sick feeling built up inside her. “I feel like I failed you and Dad,” she mumbled, her gaze meeting her mother’s briefly before skittering away, taking in the opulent furnishings of the room.

“Oh sweetheart, you never could.” Her mother put her hands on Sansa’s shoulders, love and admiration in her eyes. “I will always be proud to have you as my daughter,” she asserted.

Sansa only wished she could believe that, but it was nice to hear. “Thanks, Mum.” She conjured a smile for her mother’s benefit, though it fit awkwardly.

“It’ll work out fine, dear. We have the law on our side,” she assured her resolutely. As a matter of public record, her mother was correct, but if anyone had managed to get the pictures of her and Petyr to anyone in the Lannister camp, Sansa would be charged with treason, not merely dishonor and breach of contract as Joffrey had. The fact that Joffrey had never been faithful to her at any point in their relationship was irrelevant. The misogynist double standard was one of the many things Sansa despised about the world she’d been born into. Her mother brought her in for a tight hug, kissing her cheek before she let go. They made their way back to the antechamber with her mother chatting comfortingly about nothing much at all in an effort to distract her. When they reached it, the others in the room turn to observe their arrival, concern giving way to relief as they took in Sansa’s improved composure. The attention still weighed on her a bit, and she lowered her gaze and felt her shoulders hunch in response as she followed her mother to where her father was standing with a warm, reassuring smile.

Lady Mormont strode over to her, lifting Sansa’s ducked head with gentle but firm fingers and straightening her posture. “There, there girl. You don’t need the likes of him. We’ll find you a good Northern boy and you’ll forget all about that inbred shitstain.”

She heard Petyr snort somewhere behind her. Maege didn’t miss a beat, glaring at him over Sansa’s shoulder. “And in the unlikely event I ever need your opinion, Baelish, I’ll ask for it, you snot-nosed, jumped-up little pissant.”

“Very good, my lady,” Petyr answered, sounding amused. The Mormont matriarch glared at him fiercely, and Sansa thought for half a second the formidable woman was going to box him about the ears. She risked a glance behind at him, taking in Petyr’s familiar insouciant stance and smarmy expression, which were almost comforting, in a way.

Her father cleared his throat to de-escalate matters. “Come on, they’ll be calling us soon.”

They gathered by the door, Sansa once again set between her parents. Her father put an arm around her shoulders to give them an encouraging squeeze. “It’s going to be fine,” he murmured to her before turning back to Maester Luwin beside him. Her mother likewise was busy discussing something with Lady Mormont. Sansa froze at the unexpected brush of a hand down her arm, but relaxed when she realized it was Petyr, having leant in closer to her father over her shoulder to impart advice in a low voice before retreating. She didn’t dare turn around to see if any witnessed the inappropriate contact, but reasoned that if they had, it would hardly go unmentioned, especially by Maege.

Presently, the door to the inner chamber was opened by the same laconic man who’d ferried them about earlier. The High Septon stood just within to greet them, dressed in robes which were less formal than those he was wore for services but had somehow retained the sheen of decadence the man always coated himself with. He matched his surroundings, as the room was adorned in rich burgundy and a great deal more gold filigree than the average conference room; an imposing table of no doubt rare wood polished to perfection sat in the middle, surrounded by plush carved seats. Sansa always felt the overabundant displays of wealth by those of the Faith were a bit hypocritical, especially when its mission to help the poor seemed a great deal lower on the list of priorities than making a grand impression. The current High Septon embodied the latter values with unparalleled flair. Petyr had given her a thorough accounting of the corpulent man’s corruption, but Sansa had been dishearteningly unsurprised by the extent of it. He greeted her parents warmly, her mother much more at ease with the interaction, before shifting his attention to Sansa.

“It’s good to see you again, my child. I only wish it were under better circumstances,” said the High Septon, clasping her hand in both of his. She’d met him several times during mandated appearances at Baelor’s grand folly as a member of the Baratheon menagerie, but hardly knew him well, and had certainly never confided in him for anything. She executed a modified curtsey with a conflicted smile, which seemed to satisfy the hypocritical holy man enough to move on to address the rest of their motley ensemble.

A gray-robed septa entered the room from a different door and pulled the High Septon aside, murmuring into his ear. He excused himself then trailed her out of the second egress. Sansa guessed it heralded the arrival of Joffrey and his family. Sighing, her father took the chair nearest the head of the table, with Sansa and her mother following his lead and sitting beside him. Maester Luwin commandeered the next seat down, which left Lady Mormont and Petyr to fight over the remaining accommodations. Petyr surrendered with good grace, even endeavoring to pull her chair out for her only to be rebuffed with a swat of her hand, as she appeared less than impressed by the gentlemanly gesture.

Almost as soon as they sat down, however, they had to rise again as Joffrey sulked his way into the room, accompanied by Tywin, Cersei, Jaime, and the ever-present Hound. Additionally, there were three more men in suits that she suspected were lawyers. Sansa thought it only fitting that both sets of parents would be present for this. Joffrey’s sneer was vicious as he eyed her, but the rest of the Lannisters paid her no more heed than they did the carpet they trod over. The King and his party took the seats opposite Sansa and hers, the High Septon settling in at the head of the table, and the septa accompanying him sat off to the side by the windows, holding implements to chronicle the events of the meeting.

The corrupt religious figure sent an unctuous smile around the table. “Welcome, and thank you all for coming. The Faith’s role today will be mediation and impartiality, as only the gods may judge us,” the High Septon intoned with sanctimony. The political nature of their betrothal cast it under the shadow branch of government--as did all business with the throne--and as such, the domain of the Faith rather than the public judicial system. It was an arrangement the clergy never objected to.  “Lord Stark,” he turned to her father, “as the aggrieved party, will you speak first?”

Her father cleared his throat and leaned forward to address the gathering. “We entered into this agreement in good faith, hoping for a prosperous union between our daughter and His Grace, but sadly now find we can no longer abide by it under the current circumstances.”

The High Septon looked grave. “Please elaborate, Lord Stark.”

Her father glared at the boy king sat across from them, his voice gruff and cold as the winter of their family motto. “I fear the public shame and dishonor her intended’s actions have brought upon my daughter are insupportable. I ask Your Holiness for leave to formally dissolve the bonds.” Joffrey met his stare with a murderous one of his own, but Tywin and Cersei’s expressions remained emotionless masks.

“A drastic step indeed, but I understand your reasoning, as any father would do the same to protect his daughter.” The High Septon looked solemn. “I would ask Her Grace to respond to the allegations and motion to end the betrothal.”

Sansa looked to Cersei, trying to keep her breathing even as she anticipated the horrid woman’s response. Petyr had assured her that the pictures had not fallen into Lannister hands, and, furthermore, though she saw malice in Joffrey’s eyes, there was no trace of the victory she knew he would be unable to hide if he had such ammunition against her.

The Queen Regent interlaced her perfectly manicured fingers on the table in front of her, her expression a cultivated mien of gravity. When she spoke, her voice dripped with matching regal austerity. “Lord Stark, I know my beloved husband would be disheartened to see it come to this, but even he’d understand that the agreement is null and void in light of current events. We do not challenge the dissolution. Furthermore, I’m certain my son is deeply ashamed and regretful of the harm his actions have done to your daughter, and will apologize from the bottom of his heart.” She turned to her terror of a son with an expectant expression. Joffrey sat in mulish silence for a moment too long, but flinched when Tywin shifted next to him in a subtle lean forward, the creak of his chair corralling the boy king back in line as effectively as the crack of a whip. The Lannister patriarch held more power and dignity in the twitch of a finger than Joffrey could hope to achieve in a lifetime, Sansa reflected.

Her newly ex-fiancé sneered as he addressed her in a thin, haughty voice. “Dearest Sansa, I'm so very sorry my actions have caused you pain. I hope you have it in your heart to forgive me.” Joffrey’s apology wasn’t at all sincere, but it hardly mattered. Sansa granted him the nod of acknowledgement expected of her but declined to speak.

“The burden of responsibility weighs heavier on a king than anyone else, and he must have the fortitude to bear it with honor, by the grace of the Seven,” the High Septon intoned portentously. He turned back to her father, asking, “Does the aggrieved party wish to seek any compensation?”

Her father looked at Sansa, as they’d discussed, and she shook her head in the negative. “No, we do not,” her father answered. “But we have a request.”

The High Septon raised an eyebrow. “What is it, Lord Stark?”

Her father’s attention refocused wholly on Joffrey with a dangerous expression. He managed to keep his tone short of a growl, but only just. “In circumstances such as these, young men’s blood may run hot. I’d like your assurance that the matter ends here and now.”

“I’m certain His Grace will take it as his duty to hold himself to the highest standards of conduct, as he does in all things,” Tywin spoke, for the first time. His guarantee of no reprisal was worth little more than the breath he'd expended to say it, but was better than nothing at all, she decided.

Joffrey fumed silently, but the High Septon nodded in approval. “Well said, Lord Tywin. Unless there is anything else that needs be addressed, I believe we are finished here?” He glanced around the room, and seeing no objections, continued, “Very well. I wish the outcome might have been different, but I'm glad by the wisdom and guidance of the Seven we were able to reach a resolution agreeable to all parties. Again, thank you for coming.”

They stood as Joffrey sullenly rose to his feet. Sansa caught a quick look exchanged between Petyr and Tywin before the latter turned away to depart. Neither side offered anything as friendly as a handshake, only obligatory bows from the Stark half of the table as they watched the King and his retinue leave the room, the High Septon and his assistant accompanying them.

Sansa sighed deeply, feeling her parents on either side close in to embrace her; she was finally free. The ensuing silence was comfortable until Petyr broke it, as if he couldn't help himself. “Well, that could've gone worse.” Sansa looked down the table at him along with the others present, and saw his lips twist obnoxiously as he drawled, “Lady Mormont, if you’re still in need of that rent boy, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”

This time Maege hissed and sent a heavy backhand in his direction that would certainly have smarted had Petyr not anticipated the blow and ducked away, shit-eating grin stuck firmly in place. Her father stepped forward to intercede between them, trying to placate the furious woman, and her mother gave her childhood friend a sour look. Sansa had trouble keeping the smile from her face even as she shook her head at the incorrigible man leering at her through the scuffle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a bit longer than I expected, so apologies for that. As always, thanks for reading, and any comments are greatly appreciated.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As he came into the window_   
>  _It was the sound of a crescendo_   
>  _He came into her apartment_   
>  _He left the bloodstains on the carpet_   
>  _She ran underneath the table_   
>  _He could see she was unable_   
>  _So she ran into the bedroom_   
>  _She was struck down, it was her doom_
> 
> _(Annie, are you OK?)_   
>  _(will you tell us that you're OK)_   
>  _(there's a sign in the window)_   
>  _(that he struck you a crescendo Annie)_   
>  _(he came into your apartment)_   
>  _(he left the bloodstains on the carpet)_   
>  _(then you ran into the bedroom)_   
>  _(you were struck down)_   
>  _(it was your doom)_
> 
> _Annie, are you OK?_  
>  _So, Annie, are you OK?_  
>  _Are you OK Annie?_  
>  _You've been hit by_  
>  _You've been struck by_  
>  _A smooth criminal_  
>  -Michael Jackson, _Smooth Criminal_

“I had no idea she was yours, Mr. Baelish, I swear to fucking god!”

Littlefinger didn’t like torturing information out of people as a rule--it was messy and often yielded inconsistent results, and as a consequence he’d left behind much of the brutality that had accompanied his rise to power--but he acknowledged that he was being less than rational in this particular instance. He leaned over to meet the gaze of the terrified man being held down in the chair in front of him, studying the wide, bloodshot eyes peering back at him through greasy yellow hair, blood and snot trailing from broken nose and split lip. The spineless wretch might well not have; it was entirely likely he’d served as a blind intermediary to source muscle his buyer didn’t want to dirty his hands with, but he had chosen the rabid dog to be set upon Sansa, and for that, he would not be forgiven. “I believe you,” he soothed, forming his features into a reassuring expression, though he suspected his eyes betrayed at least some of the cold fury coursing through him.

“Please, I’ve told you all I know,” the man stuttered, voice shaking as much as his body even under the iron grip of the Kettleblack brothers.

“Good.” He smiled kindly at the man, and Rafford sagged in relief, sliding further down in the chair. Petyr waited a few moments, then nodded at the men standing behind him.

“Wait, what are you doing? No, please no!” Rafford cried out, forcing Petyr to step back to escape the spittle and sudden stench of urine emanating from the squirming parasite as the man pissed himself, struggling against the hands pulling him up and positioning him so that Osney could screw in the skull pins to anchor him place for what was to follow. It never failed to amaze Petyr how easy it was to drill into the human skull. As they tightened the clamp around the howling coward’s head, he stepped behind the heavy plastic divider that would contain much of the gore; the Kettleblack brothers had already equipped themselves with appropriate protection for the task assigned to them.

At a motion from Baelish, Osfryd flipped the switch on the machine looming to the left of the chair. He watched horrified realization dawn over Rafford’s face as he eyed his certain doom swing toward him slowly and embrace him in its teeth. Soon, the whine of the industrial-grade belt sander became indistinguishable from the man’s screams, the flesh and bone of his face grinding to powder under a pinkish spray. He felt disappointingly little; the poor excuse for a criminal was only one of many links in the chain he had to uncover and sever in Sansa’s name. He waited until one eye disappeared and the other went lifeless and vacant before signalling to shut off the mechanical fury of the machine. There was no need to make the cleanup more arduous than it had to be. He watched as the Kettleblacks started to disassemble the apparatus and free the blood-drenched corpse from it until he was interrupted in his observation by the approach of footsteps behind him, echoing off the bare concrete of the warehouse basement.

He turned around and saw Clea nearing him carrying a folder. The Volantene woman was one of his best operatives, even if she did get a tad bloodthirsty at times. At the moment, however, her expression held a touch of uncharacteristic apprehension, though she didn’t shy away from maintaining eye contact with him, addressing him with a terse, “Sir.” He nodded and accepted the folder from her. The top few sheets revealed themselves to actually be a piece of positive news for a change. He started to catalog the various tasks that would need to be done to take advantage of the good fortune--contacts to be made, supplies resourced, perhaps a bit of political capital bought and sold. Sansa would be so happy--

The contents of the next page killed that thought, hitting him like a blow to the chest. His unease and anger built the further he read down the page, nearly ripping the paper in two out of rancor. _That cockless spawn of a rancid cunt._ He had to move-- _right now--_ and none of the options at his disposal were remotely palatable. He snapped the folder shut, spun on his heel, and strode toward the freight elevator at a brisk pace, Clea trailing quietly behind him. There was much to be done, even if he had absolutely no desire to do any of it.

*************

Sansa knocked on Arya’s open door and peered inside. She had to admire her sister’s impressive display of multitasking; her sister lay on the bed tapping away on her phone--presumably texting someone--with the television playing some sort of martial arts movie and what looked like a video game running on her laptop. Her computer beeped every few seconds, prompting Ayra to click on something then go back to her phone. “Yeah?” her sister mumbled distractedly. Sansa stepped through the entryway, closing and locking the door behind her. That got her sister’s attention. “What’s up?” she inquired, letting her phone drop into her lap and grabbing the remote to pause the movie.

Sansa took a deep breath. “Arya, I need to ask you for a favor, but I need you to promise not to freak out.”

Her sister sat up at that, brow furrowed. “Okay…” she drew out the last syllable in query. Sansa pulled up her left sleeve to reveal the lines of stitches underneath. Arya started, exclaiming, “Holy shit Sansa--”

“Shhh!” she tried to hush Arya’s outburst. “I told you not to freak out.”

Her sister gaped at her, incredulous. “So I’m supposed to be totally cool with the fact that your arm looks like you lost a fight with a barbed wire fence?”

“Could you not announce it to the entire house, at least?” Sansa pleaded, wincing.

“Only if you tell me _what_ in the everloving _fuck_ happened,” she hissed.

Sansa took a deep breath. She would give her sister a modified version of the truth; there was no way for her to explain about the blackmail without revealing her relationship with Petyr.  “There was a guy who jumped me in an alley with a knife. I think Joffrey sent him.”

Arya looked equal parts furious and horrified. “Goddamn, Sansa. That little cumdumpster,” she spat. “How did you get away?” Sansa pulled the replacement knife Petyr had given her from a back pocket and displayed it on her open palm. Her sister’s eyes widened comically. “Is he--”

“Dead,” she confirmed with a nod, hiding the knife away once again. _Good riddance._

Arya swore, flabbergasted: “The Stranger’s bloody _bunghole--_ ”

Sansa sighed. “If you’re done, I need help taking the stitches out.”

Her sister shook her head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, I’m still processing the fact that my goody-two-shoes sister got in a bloody _knife fight_ and _won_ \--”

“Can you be shocked and appalled at a lower volume please?” Sansa knew she wasn’t being entirely fair dropping such a bombshell on her sister, but she didn’t have anyone else she could trust with this and private time was extremely limited in the Stark household.

“How are you so fucking calm about this?” Arya asked in a stage whisper.

She wasn’t, not really. Even the comfort of her childhood bed hadn’t enabled her to sleep properly since the attack. Not to mention she tensed around every corner and darkened room now. Setting that aside, she gave her sister a beseeching look. “I’m sorry to put this all on you, but I really need your help. Please, Arya?” She held up the suture removal kit Petyr had handed to her before her family had travelled back north; she’d had to sneak out of the house to meet him in his car. Arya finally nodded. Sansa smiled gratefully, and requested her to turn the movie back on. She did so as Sansa cleared space on her desk, unpacking the suture removal kit, cotton balls, and small bottle of alcohol, then looked up at her sister in inquiry. “You’ve seen how to do this, right?”

Arya let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah, a bunch of times,” she replied, alluding to the multitudinous injuries she’d sustained as a consequence of poor judgement and foolhardiness. Sansa shook her head, bemused, but held out her arm. Arya picked up the scissors and tweezer and got to work. “What happened to the...the body? I’m guessing you didn’t call the cops or Dad?” she asked, glancing up from her task.

Sansa shrugged. “Baelish took care of it.”

Arya accepted the explanation with considerably more equanimity than her earlier outbursts would have suggested. “I guess the creepy little pervert is good for something.” Sansa raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t dignify the statement with a response. After a moment, Arya looked up again, asking, “You’re sure you can trust him?”

Sansa just nodded, meeting her sister’s questioning eyes evenly. Arya looked skeptical but went back to work. The tugging as each stitch was snipped and pulled out was unpleasant, but not terribly painful. Sansa focused on the silly choreography of the cliched movie rather than Arya’s efforts, taking in the theatrical sprays of blood with a jaundiced eye; she’d seen how death really came, far from the carefully scripted, aesthetically pleasing construct on the screen in front of her. Before the alley she’d never known how _exhausting_ it was to die--desperate, ugly, reeking of blood and waste and despair, leaving no space to make peace with the gods, exchange deep, meaningful gazes into one another’s souls, deliver a witty quip. That’s not to say one didn’t see what a person really was when they died--a mindless beast driven by fear, fighting and scratching and clawing for every last breath before it became just another cold slab of meat.

When Arya was finished she wiped down her arm with alcohol-soaked cotton. It bled a little from the puncture sites left by the stitches, but otherwise seemed to be mending well. She snapped a picture to send to Petyr, and Arya noticed. “What’s that for?”

“Littlefinger wanted to see if it was healing ok,” she explained.

“What would he know about it?” Arya asked, her expression contemptuous.

Sansa shrugged. “Where do you think I got all the supplies?”

Arya’s nose wrinkled. “Did he stitch you up too?”

She shook her head. “No, it was some doctor he knows.”

“Huh.” Arya went quiet, mulling over the information. She wandered back over to her bed and flopped down on it. She opened her mouth as if to ask Sansa another question, but something on her computer screen caught her eye, and she bolted up, swearing. Sansa watched in amusement as her sister started pounding on the laptop’s keyboard in frustration; the game she’d been playing responded with unhappy beeps and sad music, the pixelated humanoid figures appearing quite expired to Sansa’s untrained eye.

She rolled her shirtsleeve back down, fingers tracing over the healing cuts through cloth, then sent the photo to Petyr. After a minute, he sent back a message of approval. Oddly enough, he hadn’t been answering his phone when she called as much since she’d left. If it were anyone else, she might have dismissed as just being more busy than usual, but Petyr almost always picked up or called her back within a few minutes. The sudden departure from the norm provoked disquiet and suspicion, though he was still replying to her texts with regularity. She wrapped up the used supplies and bagged them, intent on disposing it by stuffing it at the bottom of the bin outside. Arya was preoccupied trying to recover whatever she’d lost in the game.

 _“Mum says to tell you dinner is ready!”_ a shout that could only be Rickon carried through the door to them. Arya rolled her eyes and turned off the television while Sansa unlocked the door. When they opened it and stepped into the hall, they could hear her mother berating their youngest brother, explaining that she had intended for him to actually go upstairs to retrieve them rather than bellow across the house. She exchanged grins with Arya, stashed the bag and her knife in her own room while Arya waited, then they headed down to eat. As they neared the dining room, she heard Robb and Talisa speaking with her father and Bran, and felt warmth spread in her chest at the prospect of a meal with her assembled family, tempered by the melancholy of Jon’s missing presence.

*************

Sansa greeted the stragglers she passed exiting her dorm as she entered it, most likely headed to the concert with what had seemed like the rest of her campus. She didn’t feel up to joining them despite Jeyne’s pleas and cajoling, planning to drop off the bags she’d packed for Winterfell then head over to see Petyr. She’d already texted him as she was getting into the city, and he promised to send a car around for her. Besides, she fully intended to take the opportunity to figure out why he seemed to be acting even shadier than usual.

It was nice being back in her own building, empty as it was. She’d enjoyed spending time her family for a few days; it was the first time they’d really been all together since Jon’s disappearance, and the solidarity was comforting. The noise and energy became exhausting after awhile, though. When she reached her door, she was surprised to find it already unlocked, and figured Jeyne had stuck around to try dragging her to the concert by force. She prepared excuses, but when she opened it, she was shocked to see not her roommate but the thin, haughty face of her former fiance, idly sitting on her bed like it was his own personal kingdom. She might have to burn those sheets after this.

“Hello, my love,” Joffrey taunted, a disturbingly gleeful smirk on his face.

Sansa tossed her bag to the side and slipped her hand casually in her pocket, fingering the replacement knife Petyr had given her. As much as she itched to use it, the presence of the Hound standing like a malevolent statue next to the pompous boy monarch stayed her hand. “We have no more business, Your Grace,” she said firmly, eyeing him with a cold glare.

“Oh, I won’t be staying long, but I have one last gift to give you, my darling Sansa.” He stood and held out an oddly familiar device, a video already playing on its screen. She wasn’t going to take it, but something about it drew her attention even from the obtuse angle. When she could see it properly, she recognized the  security footage of Jon that Petyr had found. But it didn’t stop where she thought it would, switching to a new angle of the hallway where before it had merely cut off. She was unprepared when her brother and his men were suddenly set upon by militia moving toward them, the man on point taking the brunt of the oncoming attack and falling quickly. Her mind supplied what the video did not--frantic shouts and cries and staccato gunfire as the men scrambled to find cover. She saw the heavyset soldier beside Jon collapse as bullets tore through his chest, too slow to join him in the doorway. A flash whited out the screen for a beat and when the feed returned, the two men flanking Jon were stretched out motionless on the floor as they were now assailed from behind as well. The last of Jon’s companions surged forward with a silent yell, ignoring her brother’s commands, and he too fell under a hail of gunfire.

Crouched in the doorway, Jon wiped something--blood, sweat, tears, she couldn’t tell--from his face with his forearm as gunfire rained chips of stone down around him. Internally, she began begging and pleading for him not to do what he clearly was going to next. Her brother shut his eyes briefly as if in prayer, then lunged out of the doorway, firing wildly. He made some progress down the hallway, the mercenaries ducking back into cover as he progressed, but suddenly, as if in slow motion, she saw the blur of a stray bullet enter Jon’s left eye and exit at the base of his skull, bringing bone and tissue with it, and her brother collapsed in a horrible dark spray, the monochrome dampening none of the monstrous violence.

She fell on her knees; her eyes burned and blurred, but she could barely blink to clear them. Her shy, funny, sensitive brother, who could bring paint and ink to life with hands that she still had trouble envisioning holding instruments of death despite witnessing him in action, who had to be dragged into every game and adventure because he was still uncertain of his welcome, was gone. A boy whose father had acknowledged him but never granted him the Stark name, who’d grown up without a mother--for her own might feed him, clothe him, shelter him, but would never give him the love and acceptance he so craved, who treated him as if he were responsible for the circumstances of his own birth--stared up at the ceiling with a single remaining eye next to an empty grisly pit, blood pooling underneath him.

Her artistic soul of a brother had gone into the army because that’s what her father had taught him that men did, to make a name for himself, and perhaps--the thing that ate at Sansa the most--to find a family of his own that would judge him on the merits of what he did rather than where he came from. She’d never expected him to take to it so well, but she had underestimated him. He’d returned with posture straightened more out of pride than discipline, abandoning the slumped shoulders and bowed head he always adopted to go unnoticed. She would never again see the dark brown eyes of his that held such sorrow and mirth all at once, never get to hug him once more, hear his wry chuckle, see the self-deprecating smile that always hung about his lips. The video started replaying the last few seconds of Jon’s life, and she couldn’t stop watching it, holding the screen in numb fingers.

She was aware of Joffrey hovering next to her in triumph, the Hound’s immense shadow behind him. Her former lover’s voice reached her in counterfeit sweetness, cooing, “Oh, don’t thank me, dearest. Someone else deserves your gratitude far more than I.” Something about his tone made her tear her eyes away from the soul-destroying video and look up at him. Joffrey smiled when he saw he had her full attention, and called over her through the open door, “Littlefinger!”

 _No. Please gods, no._ With dread slowing her every movement, Sansa shifted on her knees to turn around as a familiar form stepped into the open doorway. The origin of the device she held and the video playing on it suddenly became terrifyingly apparent. Petyr’s expression was impassive as he looked down at her, but what really hurt, what tore at her chest, were his eyes. They were cold, dead things, his gaze as merciless as a shark’s. She always thought she could read his eyes, but she never knew she could be so wrong. The man that she had entrusted with her safety's family, who she'd begun to have feelings for, maybe even-- _no_ , _that way lay only madness_ \--stared back at her blankly as if she were part of the floor he stood on.

“So resourceful, our Littlefinger. He brought it to me _personally_ ,” Joffrey continued behind her, but her attention remained focused on Petyr standing over her. “Such hard work deserves a reward, don’t you think? I’m delighted to present to you the new Lord of Harrenhal.” Joffrey laughed cruelly. “You and your stupid cunt of a father thought he was _helping_ you? He’s been mine the whole time.”

Sansa couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely think as she stared into eyes of flint and celadon ice. She was truly a killer now, a slayer of her own kin. The thug could be dismissed as self-defense, but this murder was a stain she would never wash from her hands, bones she would carry with her forever. She’d been so selfish, so eager to sacrifice any and every piece on the board in the name of revenge, and even that had now turned to dust. It was if she had pointed the gun at his face and pulled the trigger herself. She deserved everything Joffrey had ever done to her, every violation, every cut and bruise. She deserved Petyr’s betrayal most of all.

Joffrey stepped closer to her, seemingly annoyed by her lack of reaction. His tone was nasty and spiteful as he spat, “You fucking whore. He even told me how you begged to suck his dick to protect your poor, sweet family.” At this, Sansa finally turned back to look at him, horror piling on top of the devastation she already felt. Joffrey’s expression twisted in sadistic delight that he had finally regained her attention. “I was going to kill him for touching what was mine, but when he told me what a pitiful fuck you were, I decided it was punishment enough.” He formed his lips into a revolting parody of sympathy as he drawled, “Imagine his disappointment; waiting decades for the only woman he ever loved just to end up with such a shit replacement. It’s almost tragic. He was better off wanking to old pictures of your mother.”

Her head swiveled back to look at Petyr, perhaps in some last desperate hope that he might deny any of the feculent words spewing out of Joffrey’s mouth, but he didn’t so much as blink. She wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, how to separate fact from fiction. Even if most of it was lies, it was mixed with just enough truth to save himself and leave her for the lions; he'd handed Joffrey her brother’s dying moments and the worst parts of herself to use as weapons against her, and gotten a fucking reward for it. The tide of gnawing guilt and shame welled up, threatening to swallow her whole. Petyr needn’t have crushed her battered, guarded heart as well, after he’d spent such time and effort wearing down her defenses, making her believe he _cared_ . Maybe he had, on some level, but it hardly mattered. Such a stupid little fool she was, as always. Perhaps all this really was some kind of elaborate revenge for the affection her mother had denied him, to break the heart of her naive, empty-headed daughter in retribution. The callous monster in front of her was capable of _anything._

Joffrey stepped forward to stand between them, looking down at her in contempt, and sneered, “Enjoy your time with your remaining family, because I’m gonna put a bullet in every last one of them soon enough. Or maybe I’ll just cut off their heads and mount them on the walls of the Red Keep; there’s something to be said for tradition.” He eyed her with one last vicious grin before turning to leave, followed by the heavy footsteps of the Hound rumbling past her. Petyr shifted to let them through the door, then followed, not even giving her the courtesy of a final glance at the wreckage he'd created before shutting the door behind him. She had nowhere to look but the endless loop of Jon dying over and over as if he were stuck in limbo. When she could finally move, she slammed the electronic tablet into the floor again and again, and started beating it with her closed fists, but the images just wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t until she noticed shards of glass sticking out of her skin, red streaking between her fingers, that she saw at some point during her assault the screen had been rendered black and broken. She shut her eyes, and saw the shapes form over and over again in undefinable colors behind her eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm anticipating getting some heat for this chapter, so I'll apologize in advance, and humbly ask that you bear with me. A great many thanks to all who have been following along, and as always, your comments are greatly appreciated.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We were spitting venom at most everyone we know_   
>  _If the damned gave us a road map then we'd know just where to go_   
>  _Now let it drop_   
>  _Let it all drop_   
>  _Let it all drop_   
>  _Oh let it all fall off_
> 
> _My ears were pressed so firmly right against your mouth to hear_   
>  _When you tried to spit the venom out your words were not so clear_   
>  _Hold on to what you need_   
>  _We've got a knack for fucked up history_   
>  _Hold on to what you need_   
>  _We've got a knack for messed up history_
> 
> _What a rotten thing to say such an awful thing to say_   
>  _I didn't mean to bite you, sorry_   
>  _I always did what I always did what I always had to sling_   
>  _So let it drop_   
>  _Let it all drop_   
>  _Let it all drop_   
>  _Oh let it all fall off_
> 
> _Cheer up baby it wasn't always quite so bad for every_  
>  _Bit of venom that came out, the antidote was had_  
>  -Modest Mouse, _Spitting Venom_

Her hands must hurt, Sansa considered in an abstract way whilst staring absently down at them as if they might belong to someone else. As soon as she could move them, she was going to get the gun Petyr had convinced her to take and blow his brains out. Then she would find Joffrey and do the same. She likely wouldn’t survive, but it would probably be better, cleaner that way. Perhaps with her dead, her family might finally be safe. The cycle of violence and retribution probably wouldn’t be broken so easily, but she could only hope. Dimly, she became aware of the door opening, admitting another into the room. The newcomer stepped before her, bent down, and delicately pulled her clenched fists up from the mess of broken glass and blood on the floor. She started to fight her way out from the abyss of her own paralysing thoughts, kicking and clawing until she finally broke through the surface and was able to lift her head up.

Petyr knelt in front of her, carefully picking embedded slivers out of her hands as he spoke in words that didn't penetrate the fog around her brain. She pulled her hands from his in horror, stumbling backward away from him. She couldn’t understand why he’d come back, unless it was to finish her off himself. He leaned forward to follow, the worry etched over his features baffling her, as if he had any reason or right to look concerned after what he’d just done.

Blood roared in her ears, deafening her to whatever words of deceit he was trying to ply her with. He copied her when she rose to her feet slowly, hands open at his sides. She stepped back into a defensive stance to put more space between them and cover the move to retrieve the knife she'd been unable to use on Joffrey earlier, a maneuver she'd never have gotten away with if his eyes hadn't remained locked on her face, pleading a case she had no interest in hearing. She stared at the point on his neck where his pulse beat strongest, cradling the blade he’d given her, fingers wet with blood still running from open cuts, then struck, lunging forward and swinging the weapon in a tight arc intersecting with the skin overlying his left carotid artery.

For such a clever man, he really ought to have expected it. His quick reaction was the only thing that saved her cutting deep enough to hit something permanent, snapping his head back as her knife swept through the first few layers of his throat, drawing a thin red line across it. When she brought it back over for another try, he blocked it with an arm, stepping forward to grab at her. His hand grasped her wrist, twisting it to wrench the weapon from her fingers. Giving up on the knife, she shoved him back with an elbow to his stomach, then used the resulting space to drive her knee up between his legs with as much force as she could muster. He doubled over, grunting, and released her, which enabled her to scramble the short distance to the bedside table. Her blood-slicked hands slipped over the contents of the bottom drawer before finding the handgun, hearing him clambering to follow behind her, but she managed to insert the clip, rack the slide, and turn it on him before he got to her, freezing him in his tracks.

He crouched a few feet away, a hand pressed against his neck only partially successful at stemming the blood seeping from it, gaze flitting between her and the gun pointed at him. She wouldn’t miss this close. His voice was rough as he panted, “Sansa, please--”

“Give me one reason I shouldn't shoot you right now,” she hissed in a tone so cold she barely recognized it as her own, thumbing off the safety and shifting her weight to brace herself, training the barrell on the center of his chest where his scar cut through it beneath the reddening cloth of his shirt.

He swallowed but otherwise remained still, and for a moment all that could be heard was the sound of uneven breaths. When he spoke again, it was soft but steady; “Your brother is alive.”

She laughed in disbelief, a harsh, ugly thing that died quickly in the quiet room. “You really think there’s anything that could come out of your mouth right now that would have the slightest chance of convincing me of that?”

He shook his head in a slight motion, his eyes never wavering from hers. Unlike before, the gray-green of them was alive with something she couldn’t name. “No, I don’t, which is why I need to take out my phone and make a call,” he explained, voice low and even, like she was some kind of wild animal he was trying not to startle.

She stared at him, trying to read his face even if she didn’t trust what she would find there, gaze dropping to the lines of his suit jacket in an attempt to determine whether he was armed before snapping back up. “If I see you do anything else, I will shoot you,” she warned, sharpening her glare, not entirely sure why she was giving him the chance to deceive her again. Perhaps some part of her was stupid enough to hope he was telling the truth.

He nodded, almost sighing, “Understood.” Slowly, with the hand not pressed against his wounded throat, he reached into a pocket and withdrew his phone, showing it to her carefully. He unlocked it, opened the address book and paged through it until he reached whatever number he’d been looking for, dialed, and set it on speaker. They both listened to the phone ring several times, and she felt her finger twitch on the trigger with each successive repetition. At last, staticky silence interrupted the flat tones, and then an impossible yet unmistakeable voice spoke. “Hello?”

She felt a sob rip through her, forming her lost brother’s name. “Jon?”

“Sansa!” He sounded happy with a hint of worry. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

She wanted to weep with joy, but couldn’t trust her ears after what her eyes had seen. She needed to be absolutely sure.  “Tell me something only you and I would know,” she demanded, attention shifting to Petyr, who observed her with a shuttered expression.

“Ok.” He was silent for a few moments, and she alternated staring at the phone in anticipation and keeping watch on Petyr, who stood like a statue holding it. When the man who could be Jon spoke again, it was with a wistfulness she hadn’t been expecting. “Do you remember when Dad commissioned a portrait of all of us as a surprise for Mum’s birthday? We had to dress up and everything. That guy kept making us come back to get it perfect.”

“Yeah, I remember.” She’d been so annoyed that Arya kept messing up her hair, making fun of Sansa’s attempts to look pretty and sophisticated. By contrast, they’d been forced to practically staple a lacy dress to her younger sister, who maintained a state of vehement rebellion the entire time, making her displeasure clear to all around her. Sansa had managed to hold in her temper at the antics until the second session when Arya started flicking spitballs at her behind Robb’s back; she’d snapped and charged at her sister, Jon and her eldest brother having to separate them to the amusement of Bran and Rickon. She started to believe this might actually be her brother, but what he’d shared so far was still within the realm of public knowledge, if one knew where to look, so she tried to temper her hope.

Jon sighed, and when he continued, his tone was considerably darker. “Then when he finally gave it to her, she freaked out and started yelling at him. She made him take it back and fix it so that her husband’s bastard wasn’t mixed in among her real children. And he went and did it.”

Arya and Rob had argued with their father in Jon’s defence, but Sansa had been shamefully silent. She remembered it vividly because it was the first time the paper-thin veneer of domestic bliss had been so acutely and unequivocally torn off to uncover the disgraceful secrets and deep-seated tensions of the Stark family, like enamel cracking suddenly atop a long-rotten tooth. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known all along about her mother’s anger with her father and resentment of her half-brother, or the toll it took on the latter in particular, but she always held herself aloof and distant where he was concerned. Sansa was forced to acknowledge at last that her indifference made her an accessory to her half-brother’s exclusion rather than a neutral party.

Jon laughed bitterly. “They hung the damn thing in the main entryway. Any other room, I could’ve avoided it, but the front door? Every day for weeks I passed that picture and stared at the empty spot where I’d been, wanting to tear it to pieces. I finally thought, if the best I’m ever going to be is a blank space, I should do you all a favor and make it a reality. I cut school one day when I knew no one else would be home and packed whatever I could carry. I wasn’t going to say goodbye to anyone, but something made me leave that wolf carving you always liked in your room.”

Sansa felt tears start to prick at the edges of her eyes, but kept them focused on the phone with her hands aimed steadily at Petyr. “Next time you’re planning on running away without anyone noticing, don’t leave emotionally significant clues lying around.”

“I didn’t think you would find it in time to matter,” he replied, and she could imagine the chagrined look on his face.

“I got sick and left school early that morning. And you’d been acting all weird for days beforehand. It didn't take much to figure it out.” Her parents had been busy at work, so Old Nan was the one to pick her up. Something in the elderly woman’s demeanor had tipped her off that all was not well, and when she saw the delicate wooden figure sitting on her bedside table, she’d made the connection immediately. She’d been paying more attention to Jon since the painting fiasco--at least partially out of guilt--and would never have noticed deviations in his behavior otherwise.

He huffed in self-deprecation. “Just my luck then, huh? Anyway, I stole a couple hundred dragons from the hiding place behind that loose brick in the fireplace Dad thinks is a secret and took a cab to the train station. I bought a ticket for Sunspear, figuring I could get off whenever I wanted to stop moving, or continue on to Essos if I felt like it. I was standing there waiting for the train, feeling incredibly sorry for myself when I saw you walking toward me. I never did figure out how you found me.”

She snorted inelegantly even as she finally began crying properly, the image of her half-brother standing all alone on a train platform, shoulders slumped in despair, head hung low, burned forever in her mind. “It’s called a browser history, doofus.”

“I guess I’m pretty shit at being sneaky, aren’t I?” he chuckled, the self-effacing edge of it achingly familiar.

“Your words, not mine.” She smiled through her tears.

“I was shocked, anyway,” he confessed. “You marched right up to me, snatched the ticket out of my hand, said that I was your brother and always would be, and told me to stop being stupid and come home. Then you ripped up the ticket so we weren’t able to get any money back.”

She laughed aloud, picturing the horrified look on his face as she tore the pricey fare to pieces, the tears in her eyes shifting from pained to cathartic.

Jon joined her for a few beats, likely remembering the unsuccessful appeal they'd made to the intractable customer service representative as vividly as she did. It trailed off, though, and his voice turned more pensive as he continued, “You dragged me back home, and by the time we got there Dad was furious. You didn’t even tell them where you’d found me or that I’d tried to run away. You lied to him and told him you’d stolen the money to buy concert tickets and couldn’t give it back.”

“It was the first and only time I got an Arya-level whipping,” she confirmed, wincing at the memory.

“I never told anyone,” he murmured thickly.

“I didn’t either.” She swallowed back a sob. She didn't yet understand how, but it could be no one but Jon and she desperately wanted to hug him, see his face; this would have to do for now. “Where are you?”

“North of the Wall with King Stannis. Thanks to you we got out just in time. I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone, it was too dangerous.” He sounded regretful. She couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for him.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, Jon,” she warned, only half-joking.

“I promise,” he assured her, the warmth in his voice as welcome as it was tangible. “I miss you, sis.”

“I miss you too, butthead,” she teased, unable to banish a silly grin from her face.

An unintelligible voice on the other end pulled him away for a second, and she heard him mumble something in return before he came back on the line. “I’ve got to go. They’re telling me we’re being traced. I’ll call you when I can.”

“You’d better. I love you,” she choked out.

“I love you too,” he murmured back before the line went dead.

She held onto his parting sentiment deep in her chest where it started to soothe the sharp catch that had seemed to accompany every breath she’d taken since the coronation and loosen the accompanying knot between her shoulder blades. The phone flashed in Petyr’s hand as the call disconnected. She stared at it, not ready to look him. He hadn’t moved his eyes away from her once during the whole exchange, barely blinking, posture stiff yet off-balance at the same time. She noticed she was still pointing the gun at him, but it had drifted down in her inattention and was now aimed at his crotch. Finally, she looked up. His expression was strangely mixed, but a healthy portion of it still appeared to be fear. _Good._ “How long?” she asked softly.

He put the phone back into a pocket and cleared his throat, but his voice remained gravelly. “What?”

“How long have you known he was alive?” she clarified, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Only a few days--” he started to prevaricate, but she wasn’t in the mood to afford him the leeway of imprecision. Not anymore.

“How many exactly?” she demanded, grip tightening on the weapon in her hand.

“Three,” he admitted emotionlessly.

So just after she'd gotten back to Winterfell and right before their phone conversations turned sporadic. What a coincidence. “How long have you had the video?”

“I had it made after you were attacked,” he confessed.  

She snorted incredulously. “I hope you’re able to appreciate just how fucked up that is, Petyr.” He flinched at that, opening his mouth, to try justifying it most likely, but she wasn’t interested. “You fucking bastard,” she hissed, “You watched me worry for _weeks_ , then make me think he’s _dead_ —”

“Varys was going to go to the Lannisters with the pictures. We had to move first.” He shook his head, dropping his hands to his sides and opening them in beseeching gesture as if begging her to understand.

“Varys was behind all this?” She wondered if it was a direct consequence of her non-answer to his proposal or if he’d had them the whole time, had seen them before she met with him. It made her feel even more violated.

He tilted his head to the side, grimacing. “Partly. The photos themselves came from a traitor in my organisation but he was going to use them against us.”

She chewed her lip, absorbing the information, and noticed his gaze drop to it before meeting hers again. Under other circumstances the predictable behavior would have amused her, but now it only provoked irritation. “I'm trying to figure out where in all that you lost the ability to call me to say Jon was alive or let me in on this grand plan of yours,” she sneered.

He shook his head regretfully. “I couldn’t, sweetling—”

“Don’t you fucking call me that,” she snarled, the pet name sending a spike of rage down her spine.

He inhaled sharply, brow furrowing. “I couldn’t; we needed Joffrey to think he’d won, or else he never would have let you go,” he averred.

She scoffed, “I’ve been serving up my own pain and humiliation to Joffrey for _years_ without your help and you didn’t think I could handle this?”

He shook his head again, insisting, “It had to look real…”

“Trust me, it felt _very_ real,” she snapped.

He swallowed hard. “I had to be absolutely sure, I couldn't risk losing…” he trailed off, looking oddly vulnerable.

She stepped into the pause with rancor. “Risk losing what? The game? Your place on the small council? Or just your neck? That seems to be the thing you value most, isn't it?” she speculated, lacing her voice with acid.

She saw his jaw work before he answered. “ _You,_ ” he breathed. _“_ I couldn't risk losing you.”

Her heart wanted to believe that what he was implying was true, but her better sense resisted. “Really? You’re trying to tell me you did all this for my benefit?” she questioned, dubious.

His eyes widened in supplication, declaring, “It was always about you sweet—” she brought the gun up to point at his head again with a glare “-- _Sansa_ ,” he corrected hastily. “Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

She wasn't sure what to say to that. “I’m supposed to believe your new title and massive fucking castle are just a happy coincidence, then?” she spat acerbically.

He shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t give a fuck about any of that, can’t you see? We needed the Lannisters to think I’d betrayed you for something, and power was what they’d find most believable. Please, Sansa, put the gun down.”

She lowered it slowly, thumbing the safety on, but didn’t drop it. “And all the other shit Joffrey said?” she challenged.

“All lies,” he stated firmly.

Were they falsehoods, really, when fear and self-loathing made them burn so deeply she felt it in her bones? Or perhaps they were just more distortions of reality he traded in as easily as he drew breath. “I’m not sure there’s really a difference with you, Petyr,” she sighed.

His face twisted in contrition. “I’m sorry.”

Uncharacteristically, he remained silent after his apology, watching her process the information. Logically, she could follow the steps he’d taken, how and why he’d made each move he did, but it didn’t dislodge the stake his betrayal had buried in her heart. She took a deep breath and set her expression in determination to deliver her verdict. “You keep saying ‘we.’ _‘We’_ didn't choose to do this, you did. I understand why you did it, but you had no right to make that decision without me. All I’ve ever asked in this was for the truth where it concerned me and my family and the ability to make my own choices regarding it. I can’t trust you, Petyr. I’m not sure I ever will,” she concluded, striving to reach the iciness he’d subjected her to.

He sighed. “I see.”

“And if I ever have the slightest suspicion that you’re going to betray me or my family again, I’ll finish what I started,” she added harshly, gesturing to his still-bleeding neck with the hand holding the gun.

Petyr smiled ruefully. “And that’s why I love you.”

Fury flared and she raised the weapon again. “You just can’t fucking _help yourself_ , can you—”

He put his hands up in surrender but his expression bore anything but. “Shoot me if you have to but know I speak the truth. I’ve been watching you for a very long time, since you were a naive little thing, head filled with the pretty lies your parents told you of how the world was a beautiful place ruled by justice and kindness. When it showed you its teeth for the first time, caught you in its jaws, dragged you through hell itself, it would have torn anyone else to pieces, but somehow you were left merely bruised and bleeding, still whole. You try to deny your own brilliance but I’ve seen you grow, adapt, survive where others would've withered and died.

“Watching you stretch beyond the confines of the prison of trite morality your parents built around you is the most beautiful thing I have ever had the fortune to witness,” he declared, voice low, heated, and rough. “I know who you really are, what you try to hide because you’re afraid of what you’re capable of. When I look at you I see the strength that none of the rest of them will ever notice or give you credit for. How could I not love the girl willing to slit my throat without second thought for perceived betrayal, who feels guilty for how well she lies, cheats, and steals and how much she enjoys it, who matches me at every turn?”

His eyes were molten, roiling contradictions; she didn’t understand how they could be cold and hot all at once, ugly and beautiful, inhuman indifference and burning devotion, euphoric destruction and violent tranquility. It was as if the disparate halves of him--the savage monstrosity that was Littlefinger and Petyr,  the man who'd been the orphaned, rejected boy--spoke to her with one unified, confounding voice. It was making her head hurt. “I want you, care for you, not for any resemblance or name you bear but because I _know_ you, for all the dark, twisted imperfections that make you _mine_ and not theirs, that make you _perfect_. I love you, Sansa Stark. Nothing you do or say can change that.”

She was furious to feel tears collect in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked to clear them, and the evidence of her weakness tracked glistening paths down her face. That he thought this was an appropriate time for some kind of relationship-defining declaration was simultaneously beyond her and entirely unsurprising. “You’re a real shithead, Petyr, you know?”

His lips quirked in self-deprecation but his eyes still burned, consuming her like they always did. “I’m well aware of that.” He lowered his hands as she let the gun drift down and slip from her fingers, slowly stepping toward her.

She let him get within an arm’s length of her before stopping him with a hand on his chest. He halted immediately, searching her face hopefully. She exhaled unevenly, “I can’t do this right now. I need you to leave.”

Her hand left a stain of blood on his shirt to match the steady stream of red down his neck when she dropped it. He nodded, a wounded expression flashing briefly before vanishing. “Very well. I’m so sorry, my love,” he murmured hoarsely. Now she could hear echoes of the endearment every time he’d ever called her something else, and it was so obvious she wondered how she'd never noticed before.

“If you apologize any more I’m going to think you’re possessed,” she mumbled, wiping tears from her face with the back of her hand.

He laughed bitterly, his eyes glassy in a way she hadn’t seen before, and retreated. He gave her one last broken look that nearly shattered her resolve, but she shut and locked the door behind him. She turned to survey the bloody ruin of her dorm room; she had no idea how she was going to explain this to Jeyne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again about the last chapter, I hope this one helps a bit. Thanks for reading and sticking with this!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I believe it was a sin_  
>  _Do you in the way I did you in_  
>  _I couldn't stop it coming from afar_  
>  _I lost the keys to the getaway car_  
>  _And every now and then I'm in this place_  
>  _It's hell living when I need your face_  
>  _Don't hide don't hide don't hide from me_  
>  -The Revivalists, _It Was a Sin_

Sansa rinsed the blood from her hands in the communal bathroom, keeping an eye on the door for any returning revelers, wrapped the cuts up as best she could, then quickly made her way back down the hall to the relative safety of her room. She needed to buy time to clean up, and decided to keep Jeyne away by claiming she had invited a guy over, apologizing in her message for sexiling her. Jeyne’s response was more enthusiastic than Sansa would’ve expected-- _Get it guuuurrrlll--_ accompanied by a several emojis she had never seen used before, much less associated with any kind of sexual connotation, including, among others, a diaper, a clown face, and a paper clip. She dearly hoped it could be attributed to her roommate’s state of inebriation rather than commentary on any hypothetical fetishes she thought Sansa had. With that taken care of, she texted Arya for help, and fortunately she answered that she would be arriving with Gendry within the hour with cleaning supplies. She felt bad asking her sister for this, interrupting whatever they had planned for the night, but she hoped to make it up to her with news of Jon’s survival. She was a bit nervous about the call she had to make after that, but she couldn’t let Arya try to pick whatever glass remained out of her hands as well. She found the card Corvus gave her for emergencies, and dialed. When he answered, he didn’t even question her, just gave her an address and told her to come whenever she could.

The next task would prove more stressful, but she didn't have much of a choice; she texted Petyr to see what he wanted done with the device she’d destroyed and to ask for a way for Arya to talk to Jon. She wondered if it might have been cruel to send him such an impersonal request right after essentially rejecting him with her non-answer, but her sister would need it and she knew if there was any way possible for Jon to talk to Arya, her brother would do it. She still hadn’t had time to fully process the events of the evening. What did she feel for Petyr? Before he'd cut out her heart with a scalpel and dissected it into tiny pieces, then clumsily tried taping it back together, she might have said she was falling in love with him, but now…

Her phone buzzed with his prompt reply, saying he would have someone pick up the broken equipment and anything else she wanted disposed of and that he would try to set up another phone call later that night. For better or worse, she didn’t sense any resentment on his part, and then he’d followed that with several different suggestions on how to get blood out of carpeting; she wanted to laugh and burst into tears at the same time. At this point, her fingers were starting to sting and bleed through the bandaging, but she persevered in wiping down what surfaces were amenable to it. The carpet, on the other hand, would require more heavy duty chemicals. She changed into an old sweatshirt and leggings and put her bloodied clothes in a bag with the broken tablet, gathering up what slivers of glass she could see as well. When she got a text from Arya, she told them to meet her by a less-used entrance to her building. She ventured out of her room cautiously, keeping her wrapped hands in the pocket of her dark hoodie, but encountered no one on the way down the hall or in the stairwell. Arya wore a very worried expression when Sansa opened the door which only deepened when she saw her gauze-wrapped fingers, but she hushed her, ushering them inside and upstairs to her room, not wanting to risk being overheard. When she opened the door, Arya gasped. “What the _fuck_ happened?”

“Joffrey,” Sansa sighed, not knowing how else to explain the series of events. Even with her cleaning efforts, the trails of blood on the floor suggested a battle had taken place, which wasn’t too much off the mark.

Fortunately, her former boyfriend’s reputation lended itself to all sorts of believable atrocities. “That fucking wankstain,” Arya spat, hatred oozing from her every pore. With the three of them working together, it didn’t take long to have the carpet mostly blood-free. When they’d bagged everything up, she turned to Gendry. “I have to ask another favor of you,” she asked, pulling up the location on her phone. “Can you drive me here?”

He looked at the point on the map with a raised eyebrow, but said, “Sure, no problem.”

The doctor’s office was in a very dodgy section of Flea Bottom, evidently, but Sansa wasn’t too concerned. They headed out, Sansa locking the door behind her, and left down the same back staircase as before, dumping the bags for Petyr’s men to pick up at the appointed spot near the bins on the way to the parking lot. Gendry had acquired yet another rust bucket, she noted as they approached his car. She got in the back, content to leave her sister and her very emphatically not-boyfriend to bicker amongst themselves in the front.

The journey across town gave her the opportunity to reflect, for good or ill. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the threadbare, lumpy seat. It gave her chills to think that Petyr had played his part so well she might have killed him, had come so close to doing so. Her emotions were still a confused mess; lingering pain from Joffrey’s poisonous barbs mixed with the relief of her brother’s survival, guilt for attacking Petyr and--which seemed to affect him more, oddly enough--for being unable to give him the reaction he’d clearly been hoping for with his declaration. His words had been moving and terrifying in equal measure as he delivered uncompromising truths about her with alarmingly intense empathy--all the faults and sins she tried to purge or bury but couldn’t hide from him. That Petyr understood her better than her parents, siblings, or friends was unsettling, and left her feeling exposed; he was the only one who saw her for who she really was, knew the deep, wretched ugliness that lay at her core, and professed to love her for rather than in spite of it.

He was a liar, a murderer, an amoral, manipulative peddler of flesh who would do terrible things to get what he wanted and worse to keep it, who’d confessed to desiring her from far too early an age and carried indelible marks of a complex past with her mother. But he was also funny, thoughtful, and sweet in a perverted way; he kissed her as if he needed the taste of her more than air itself, shagged her like there was absolutely nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing, and always seemed to have his attention focused entirely on her as though no one else existed whenever they were together. He challenged her, infuriated her, encouraged her, supported her, taught her what he knew with surprising patience and enjoyment, and made her think about the world around her in ways she never would have before. There was something fundamentally damaged--broken--about him, but she suspected the same could be said for her. The question was, could she bear the weight of Petyr’s affections--did she even want to?

The buzzing of her phone made her open her eyes and sit up. It was a message from Petyr containing a number and a time window. They would arrive at the doctor’s office just prior to it. She was in the middle of typing a response when Gendry swerved suddenly, crossing over a lane to pull off onto a side street to the very vocal objection of the driver who had been occupying it. Arya screeched, “What the _fuck_ Gendry--”

“We’re being followed,” he murmured, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Sansa twisted in her seat to look behind them and recognized the men in the car, (purposefully not making a terribly good effort at stealth, it seemed) if not the nondescript vehicle itself. “It’s ok, they’re Littlefinger’s,” she reassured them.

“He has people _following_ you?” her sister yelped, aghast, turning around to look at her in alarm.

She shrugged. “They’re guards.”

Arya frowned in concern. “Sansa…”

She knew how it must appear to her sister; it had all the trappings of a dangerously obsessed stalker, but the truth was far more complicated and fucked up. “If he hadn’t, the incident in the alley would’ve gone much worse,” she reasoned, but could see it left her sister dissatisfied.

Arya thought for a bit, then ventured, “Are you sure Littlefinger didn’t send that guy?” It was a canny insight into the way Petyr’s twisted mind operated that she hadn’t expected her sister make, but she wouldn’t have believed it even before his proclamation of affection. It was too sloppy, to begin with, and though it did have the effect of sending her running into his arms, he was too possessive to risk letting anyone else touch her, much less ordering them to do so.  

“Joffrey bragged about it,” Sansa snarled, shaking her head in denial, feeling not at all guilty for adding one more to the bastard’s considerable tally of misdeeds. This whole thing was his fault when it came down to it, anyway. Arya reached a hand toward her in sympathy, which Sansa took, despite the twinge of pain that accompanied it. They held the embrace for a few moments before Arya turned back around. Sansa checked behind them, noticing that the car tailing them had retreated to a more discreet distance. The buildings around them began to feature more broken windows, strip clubs, check cashing offices, and fast food joints with bulletproof glass as they passed from Visenya’s Hill into Flea Bottom. They made several turns that seemed convoluted to Sansa before pulling into an alleyway behind a series of warehouses. One of the unmarked garage bays opened, and a man dressed in mechanic coveralls stepped out to wave them inside. Gendry and Arya turned around to look at her and shrugged at her answering nod. They pulled into the garage and came to a stop, the door lowering noisily behind them.

Sansa checked her phone; it was time. “Arya, there’s something I need to show you--”

“--but you have to promise not to tell anyone blah, blah, blah… gods damn, Sansa, what is it now?” Arya rolled her eyes theatrically.

Sansa pursed her lips. “I’m serious, especially not Dad--”

“Ugh, fucking hell, I swear!” Arya moaned, head thudding against the car seat in frustration.

Sansa inhaled deeply, trying to suppress a grin, and dialed the number Petyr gave her. It clicked through several times before it started to ring. Jon picked up quickly. “Hey Sansa.”

“Hey,” she replied, smiling. “I have someone here who wants to talk to you.”

She offered the phone to a puzzled Arya, who took it from her gingerly. “Hello?” Sansa couldn’t hear Jon’s reply, but could guess easily enough that he had judging by the sudden crumpling of Arya’s face, her tears as she cried out their half-brother’s name.

Sansa got out of the car to give her sister some privacy. Gendry stepped out as well, following her to the metal door where the man in overalls had been waiting patiently. He pressed on an intercom button, and the heavy duty door opened with a buzzing noise to reveal Corvus wearing scrubs, a warm expression on his face as he welcomed her. She turned to Gendry. “It’s ok, you should stay with Arya.” He protested, but Sansa insisted. Her sister would need the support even if she admitted it or not, and Sansa trusted the physician enough not to need a bodyguard.

“Come in, please,” the doctor beckoned her inside and led her down a bare concrete hallway that led to another imposing metal door. When he opened it, however, instead of the warehouse she was expecting, it revealed what looked like an ordinary doctor’s waiting room, complete with receptionist window, old magazines, and a fishtank; the only thing missing was elevator music. The bizarre, jarring sight rendered her speechless. Corvus noticed her disorientation and chuckled. “This is Petyr being an ass, really. Most of my patients aren’t in any condition to appreciate their surroundings when they come in, and even when I see them for follow up visits it’s next door in the clinic.”

“Clinic?” Sansa queried as they passed through the room.

He nodded. “We serve most of the neighborhood. They prefer coming here to trekking halfway across town to wait for hours at the city hospitals, for a variety of reasons. We don’t ask questions and it’s free for those unable to pay.” He opened the door for her, waving her into a hallway full of hospital stretchers, then led her into what looked like an examination room off it. He smiled, boasting, “And in my personal opinion, we provide better care.” As he sat down on the rolling chair next to the exam table, the physician gave her an ironic grin, his tone turning pensive. “We might be killers, junkies, rapists, and thieves, but we can still heal.”

“Petyr set all this up?” she asked, a bit bewildered as she hopped up on the table.

“Awhile ago,” Corvus answered, pulling a tray of equipment atop a stand over next to her.

He’d essentially constructed an underground hospital in the heart of one of the most neglected neighborhoods in the city, serving a dire need left unfulfilled by the local government for far too long. “This benefits him in ways other than financially, doesn’t it?” she ventured. Money could buy loyalty for a time, but dependency for health and well-being--the lives of children and loved ones--formed more permanent obligations. The investment ensured that he would essentially own the allegiance of Flea Bottom and its people without any official designation permitting him to do so.  It was simultaneously humanistic and incredibly mercenary, and shouldn’t have surprised her in the least.

“Sharply observed,” Corvus replied, flashing her a smile. “Now, let’s see what you’ve done to yourself this time, Miss Stark.” His words might’ve offended if they hadn’t been delivered with such gruff affability. She held her hands out so that he could carefully unwrap them. He turned them over, examining them with a keen eye, then sighed. “What happened?”

“I punched a glass screen. Several times,” she admitted, shrugging. In retrospect it was a foolish thing to have done, but in the moment she hadn’t exactly been thinking straight.

He tsked, reaching for tweezers and sponges. “Remind me not to lend you my phone,” he joked, and started meticulously picking out bits of glass that remained. It hurt, but she could handle it.

He worked for a few minutes before a knock on the door interrupted them. A tall, beautiful woman in scrubs with tattoos subtly drawn over her dark skin poked her head in. “Hello,” she smiled at Sansa before addressing Corvus. “Did you need the OR?”

He shook his head, eyeing Sansa’s hands before turning back to her. “No, I can take care of it here. Tell them to keep the room prepped though. The knife and gun club’s bound to make an appearance soon enough.” The woman nodded before shutting the door behind her.  

“OR?” Sansa questioned, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned with evident pride. “We have the capacity to run three at once, if need be, but fortunately it isn’t often. Every once and awhile, we get a swarm of dickheads coming in all at once because they shot each other.”

He worked in silence for a time before abruptly declaring, “I knew your mother back in Riverrun, you know.”

Sansa started a bit at the unexpected announcement. “Really?”

He nodded. “The whole Tully family, too, socially at least. Your grandfather was an arrogant old bastard, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I don’t remember much about him,” Sansa admitted. He’d passed away when she’d been very young, although she did have many fond memories of her grandmother. She hazarded a guess, “Is that how you know Petyr?”

He chuckled, looking up at her in amusement. “Oh no, he was a patient of mine, one of the worst I’ve had.”  His eyes grew unfocused in reminiscence as he continued to wipe the blood from the cuts, searching for more shards of glass. “I haven't always been a mob doctor. I was the best goddamn trauma surgeon in the Riverlands. After that business with your uncle, I spent the better part of a night putting Baelish back together. He tried to die on the table twice before we got him stabilized, earned himself a nice vacation in the ICU. The day we took him off the ventilator, the ungrateful bellend tries to leave and rips open half his stitches, almost undoing all my hard work. He was an unholy terror the entire time, this undersized punk kid who had my nurses fearing to even step in the room. He cursed at me every time I saw him, so I just started cursing right back until eventually he gave in and became somewhat civil. The fact that I controlled the pain meds helped considerably.”

He looked up at her again, expression sobered. “Your mother never visited, to my knowledge. Your aunt, on the other hand--well, she was… dedicated I suppose you could say. When he was finally cogent, he threw her out. There’s quite a bit of history there, so I gather.”

Sansa grimaced. “I don’t know her well. The last time I saw Aunt Lysa was at Uncle Jon’s funeral. She didn’t take it well.” That was an understatement, if there ever was one. Her aunt had argued with her mother at the reception, her father and uncle having to step in to separate them. Shortly after, Aunt Lysa was committed to psychiatric care, leaving her cousin Robin in the care of Uncle Edmure and his wife, which might have been the best for him. The few times she’d seen him since, he’d seemed a bit less weird.

“Mad as a hatter, that one,” Corvus agreed, filling a syringe with sterile water. He held her hands over a basin, and started to spray liquid into the open cuts.

Sansa gritted her teeth, knowing this would be the worst part of the whole process. “How did you end up in King’s Landing?” she asked, circumspectly trying to ascertain why he’d been reduced to a back alley surgeon after what sounded like an illustrious career.

“I hit a sixteen-year-old girl head on in my Bentley while blind drunk,” he stated baldly, refilling the syringe to switch to the other hand. Sansa blanched, trying to apologize for her blunder, but he just laughed sadly. “It's never fair, is it? I lost my family, my career, my place in society, but it wasn't nearly enough to repay the debt I owed. Still owe. Petyr found me in prison, and when I finished my time, set me up here. At least I can still help people, though I don’t deserve to be doing what I love. It’s a bitter sort of irony, really.” He finished irrigating the cuts, wiped her hands down, and gave them a final inspection before applying some sort of skin adhesive to the myriad small lacerations.

“Is it okay for you to be telling me all of this?” Sansa wondered, suddenly concerned at how much the physician had revealed.

“If he didn't want you to know, he'd never have introduced us. He could easily have stitched you up himself; he's almost better than me, at this point,” he snorted. He eyed the closed wounds. “We’ll do an x-ray when I’m done, but I’m pretty sure I got everything out.”

He sat back, evidently waiting for the substance to dry before wrapping her hands back up in gauze. “Miss Stark, I’m not sure what happened between the two of you, but I know Petyr well enough to suspect he probably fucked it up in some way. Boy never makes anything easy, for himself or anyone else.” He sighed, shaking his head, then met her gaze with a sincere expression. “I do know that beneath the many, many layers of asshole, he is a decent man, and I haven’t seen him care about anyone else the way he does for you in a very long time, if ever. I would never tell you what to do, but I wanted you to know that.”

Sansa thanked the doctor uncertainly. He’d given her even more to ponder, and she was still no closer to figuring out what the hell she wanted than before.

*************

Littlefinger clicked through the file he kept on all of his employees detailing strengths, weaknesses, tendencies, and close personal contacts-- _collateral--_ to refamiliarize himself with the man who'd thought selling incriminating pictures of his boss to the highest bidder a good idea. His people had worked through the footage until they found the culprit concealing the camera in the ornate detailing of a lamp without even attempting to disguise his identity; Ollo Lophand, a petty, mid-level enforcer who’d served him uneventfully for about six years. They’d found several more cameras elsewhere as well. It appeared that Lophand hadn’t specifically been targeting him and Sansa but had just gotten lucky when they'd stumbled into those particular rooms. Baelish dispatched Brune to hunt him down, and though it had taken much longer than expected to find him, he’d been gratified to get the message a short while ago that the man had been acquired.

His eyes wandered back to one of the photographs on his desk, tracing Sansa’s face with aching familiarity. Absently, he scratched at the bandaging on his neck, the week-old wound beneath it burning. It would scar if he didn’t stop picking at it. _Good._ He’d been cut by his love for a Tully woman twice now, but he wore Sansa’s mark far more willingly; her handiwork was more subtle and precise yet just as deadly as the gift from her uncle over his chest, and far more visible, unless he wanted to wear turtlenecks for the rest of his existence. He pressed his hand against it, feeling the pain sharpen; any deeper and she would have ended him, and he couldn’t love her any less for it.

He hadn't seen her, touched her, or even spoken to her properly for seven days, and the distance she'd imposed hurt far worse than any physical injury he might endure. After his defeat two decades ago, what he’d reforged of himself had been better, stronger than before, capable of securing the power he desperately needed. Now, by contrast, he felt her absence as if something vital had been torn out of him, the part of himself that had kept him breathing even as his lungs filled with blood, crawling his way back to consciousness from the depths of pain and sedation--the will to survive that drove him ever onward had abandoned him along with her. Now he was lost, an undead shadow going through the motions required of him. Part of him--the half that had ruthlessly run through each scenario of every option he had, limited as he had been by Varys and those blackmailing cunts, until he decided on the course of action that provided the best outcome but made the rest of him howl--was angry at her for acknowledging the necessity of what he did but refusing to forgive him for it. He knew he’d used every fear and insecurity she had--cruelty embodied--but it had all been for her sake. He was undeniably, irrefutably a monster, he’d spent years--decades even--ensuring that, but he’d thought he’d demonstrated beyond any doubt that he whatever he may be was _hers_.

He swiveled his chair around to look through the one-way mirror adorning one whole side of his office overlooking the club’s main floor as if Sansa might be there. She wasn’t, of course; her obligation to Joffrey was discharged, and if she were to seek Petyr out it wouldn’t be by walking through the front door. His eyes followed the spider web of cracks in the panes he’d splintered when he’d stupidly wrecked his own office in pain and rage. He’d thrown his best bottle of whisky at it, and had been forced to get royally pissed on his second best. It was pitiful, he knew, even more so than all the time he’d spent stalking her before, often through that same window, as she danced just out of the reach of clawing hands and snapping teeth, surviving on her wits alone.

He’d lost count of how often he’d perversely taken himself in hand, watching as an underage girl hid her tears, entranced not by her pain but by how well she buried it, fantasizing about those lips which wove a cloak of clever lies to protect herself wrapped around his cock. He’d come harder merely thinking about her potential to be so much _more_ than he ever had before with other women. Finally being inside her had felt like dying and being reborn anew each time, and being denied that was a sentence of eternal gray misery-- _nothingness._

He’d thought himself pathetic enough then, but it was nothing compared to now. He drank far too much and rubbed himself raw like some desperate schoolboy seeing his first pair of tits, and it eased the ache not at all. The image of her aiming a gun at him and intending to use it was engraved indelibly in his mind, looking like an avenging goddess, eyes sparking in rage, weapon held in delicately strong hands that were bloodied but steady, the unforgiving ice of her voice a freezing burn on his ears. The recollection mixed with his memory of the sweet scent of the skin just behind her ear, the soft fullness of her breasts, the divine taste of her arousal dripping from her warm folds, the addictive cries of ecstasy wrung from her lips when he sucked on the tight bud of her clit. He brought the hand on the window down to press against his groin. A sudden knock at the door interrupted his musings. He turned back to hide his growing erection under the desk, though if he guessed the identity of the interloper correctly, it would do nothing to fool her. “Come in,” he offered begrudgingly.

Ros slipped into the room, her outfit straddling the line between dominatrix and ruthless executive; he’d always admired her taste. “Sir, Oswell from corporate called. He said the Iron Bank representatives have been hounding him again. You cancelled the last three appointments?”

He waved a hand absently, muttering, “Fine. I’ll deal with it later.”

She gave him a concerned look. “It’s already later, sir. Surely it’s not worth throwing everything away--”

He lashed out before he could think, sending the lamp on his desk hurtling to the floor with a clenched fist  as he growled at her, “She _is_ everything!” He hadn’t meant to admit it aloud, or destroy one of the few remaining features of his office that had escaped his wrath the last time, but there it was.

She appeared startled, but recovered quickly. “Be that as it may, do you really think you’ll win her back by sulking?”

“Careful, Ros,” he warned. She might well be right, but that didn't mean he wanted or needed to hear it from her.

She crossed her arms and gave him a hard look. “I’m here because no one else will dare call you out on your bullshit.”

He sneered, but she was saved from his ire for her impertinence by the arrival of Lothor in the open doorway.

He cleared his throat. “Pardon me, sir. The package is here.” Petyr gave Ros another glare promising the subject would be addressed at a later point and got up to see what Brune had brought him. “We’ve been tracking his bank accounts, as you requested. And he had these on him,” Brune added, handing over a stack of papers that revealed themselves to be plane tickets and travel papers.

“Pentos?” he asked, paging through the pile quickly.

“His girlfriend took his daughter there,” Lothor answered. Petyr might have felt some empathy for the man’s desperation, as he himself faced similar affliction in being forcibly separated from the one he loved, but there was only enough space in his chest for rage. He handed the packet back to Brune and strode past him to the elevators, dimly aware of his employees following him. On the way down to the subbasement, he prepared himself for the encounter at hand. He generally visited violence upon others many layers removed, but this was personal.

When he got to the floor, he was pleased to find his quarry secured neatly in a chair in one of the rooms. Lophand looked like the kind of man who worked on enlarging his biceps to compensate for inadequacies elsewhere. He gazed at Baelish with a stupidly defiant expression on his handsome face marred slightly by bruises and cuts--likely inflicted during capture, as he'd instructed that as little damage as possible be done to the traitor. Littlefinger met the effrontery cooly. He kept meticulous notes on all his employees; their strengths and weaknesses, habits, tendencies. Most people were far more predictable than they would like to think.

“Uncuff him and step away,” he ordered, voice low.

In his peripheral vision he saw one of the Kettleblacks frown, objecting, “Boss--”

“The next man or woman who questions me takes his place in the chair,” he interrupted evenly. One of them stepped forward to undo the handcuffs, and Lophand pushed himself out of the chair slowly, glancing at the men on either side of him before returning his attention to Petyr.

“If you can get past me, you are free to go,” he said neutrally, hands clasped loosely behind him. He could see the man eyeing him up and down, deciding that even in his injured state the slight form of his employer wouldn't be much of a challenge. Littlefinger was used to that look. He’d always been smaller, weaker than his opponents, and had learned that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be able to reliably overpower them. His best asset was his wit, and he’d worked to sharpen his mind and reflexes to elevate contests he couldn't avoid from exchanges of brute force to chess matches. Petyr Baelish had been losing fair fights since he could walk, and now made it his life’s ambition to never be in one again.

The man glanced between Baelish and the open door behind him. Petyr didn’t bite on the man’s feint, and was quite ready for the charge when it came a half-breath later. He twisted away from it, directing his opponent’s momentum into the wall beside him. The man threw his arms up to cushion the impact, and Petyr used the opening to deliver a savage blow to his unprotected neck with the blackjack he'd hidden up his sleeve. Lophand collapsed on his knees, hands now clawing at his throat, and Littlefinger continued his assault with several kicks to the man’s sides and blows to his head, leaving him groaning on the floor. Seeing that his prey was momentarily incapacitated, Petyr felt safe enough to step away to grab the metal chair he’d been cuffed to. It wasn’t the heaviest or sturdiest of weapons, but when folded it had a steady weight that settled into his grip reassuringly, its edges sharp and cruel.

He brought it down with full force to the back of the man’s skull, feeling a wet crunch and hearing a pained moan. He did it again, then again, over and over, long past any meaningful movement or sound from the form beneath him, until his arms were numb and his lungs burned. He dropped the ruined piece of furniture in the puddle of blood seeping out of the still body at his feet, and noticed his jaw had clenched until it felt like his teeth would shatter. He wiped a hand across his forehead, and came away with bits of gore and bone. He would have to scour his skin raw and burn his clothes; shame, he rather liked this suit.

“Dispose of that,” he ordered, turning to leave the room without looking for any reaction from his underlings. No one followed him into the elevator, which was a good decision on their part. He pressed the button for his flat and spent the short journey upstairs trying to calm his breathing, staring at his reflection in the mirrored doors;  his face was set in a neutral mask that clashed with the blood painted across it and a glint of madness in his eyes he hadn't yet buried. That Sansa had failed to reciprocate his affections was a setback, certainly, but he knew she would in time. For now, he will burn everything that might come between them to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad you guys have stuck with this story, and are still enjoying it. There's going to be two more chapters after this FYI. Thanks for reading, and as always, any feedback is very much appreciated. Cheers!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well I might_   
>  _Disintegrate into the thin air if you like_   
>  _And I'm not_   
>  _The dark center of the universe like you thought_
> 
> _Well it took a lot of work to be the ass that I am_  
>  _And I'm pretty damn sure that anyone can_  
>  _Easily, equally fuck ya over_  
>  -Modest Mouse, _The Dark Center of the Universe_

Littlefinger straightened his cuffs, then employed the tastelessly ornate knocker to announce his presence on the Lannister doorstep. After a moment, the door opened to reveal Lancel, who ushered him inside with the bare minimum of formality. Baelish smirked; the man looked a great deal more bedraggled and beset upon than normal. Perhaps being Cersei’s plaything was starting to wear thin, or Stark may have finally started putting pressure on the ambitious fool. He was directed with a similar lack of ceremony to the drawing room. When he saw Varys standing across the table after entering, it took every ounce of will to not vault over it and wrap his hands around the man’s thick neck and _squeeze--_

He blinked to soothe the murderous itch crawling underneath his skin. He was sure some of his animosity bled through in his eyes, though he managed a mostly cordial greeting. “Varys.”

The spy offered an oily smile back. “Littlefinger. Or should I address you as Lord Littlefinger now?”

Baelish forced self-deprecation into his face and tone. “Would that His Grace had bestowed a new nickname along with his generous gift.” He smiled with far less malice than he felt.

Varys demurred slyly. “Oh, I don’t know, I think it suits you better than any other.” His brow furrowed in false concern. “What happened to you neck?”

He had to stop himself from reflexively rubbing the bandage. It had only just stopped bleeding. “Cut myself shaving,” he answered casually.

“I’d no idea the activity had the potential for such peril,” Varys clucked.

Petyr bared his teeth. “You wouldn’t, would you? Be thankful you’re spared such an onerous chore.”

“Oh I am.” Irritatingly, Varys just looked amused with the customary dig at his maiming. His tone turned speculative. “I must say though, I was afraid that perhaps you’d run afoul of a wolf or two. Still plagued by that weakness for redheads, aren’t you Petyr?”

Before he could reply with a countering barb, the door opened again. Tyrion and Pycelle entered, ambling and hobbling, respectively, the former running metaphorical circles around the latter in lively conversation. “--and that's how I learned to never trust Norvosi manscaping advice--” He stopped upon seeing the two of them facing off over the tasteless centerpiece. “Baelish, Varys! How are you, my friends?”

Petyr glanced quickly back at Varys with animus before bowing to the jovial newcomer. “Lord Tyrion, it’s always good to see you back in King’s Landing. The city is a far duller place without you,” he drawled smoothly.

Varys looked about a step away from rolling his eyes at the obsequious greeting as he offered his own. “Good evening, Lord Tyrion, Grand Maester Pycelle.”

The old man mumbled his own vague salutations before heading to the room’s wet bar.

“A welcome addition to every conversation, that one,” Tyrion jibed, walking over to deposit the stack of papers he was holding on the table next to Petyr.

“How are you finding the North, my lord?” Varys inquired, moving to stand behind the chair across from Tyrion.

“Cold, dry, and miserable. And that’s just the women.” Tyrion cracked, grinning in wry amusement.

Baelish and Varys chuckled obligingly. The latter’s eyes flickered to Petyr before he protested slyly, “Come now, surely not all Northern ladies are so inhospitable?”

Petyr’s stare hardened, but it went unnoticed by Tyrion. “They are when you’re an invading force, and I can’t really blame them,” the small man sighed. “We’re fighting the terrain and its inhabitants as much as Stannis. Stark gave us a few militia squads of his, nominally to help us out, but I swear they spend more time sabotaging our efforts than anything.” He noticed Pycelle relinquish his place at the bar, clutching a very large glass of what appeared to be port as he shuffled to a seat, and his mien brightened considerably. “Do either of you want anything?” he offered, making his way to fix his own drink. Baelish declined politely, as did Varys.

Petyr took the chair next to where Tyrion had set his things down, depositing his own in front of him. He buried his ire at the not-quite-man sitting across from him, letting near-homicidal rage wash over him before hiding it under cold amusement. The sudden change in his demeanor seemed to puzzle Varys; let the man speculate, he’d find out the reason soon enough, to his sorrow. They stared at one another in silence as Tyrion kept himself entertained at the bar, entire battles playing out between them in minute expression shifts, assessing strengths and probing weaknesses. Varys was a worthy opponent and very nearly a friend, but he wouldn’t mourn his passing, not after what he’d done to Sansa. The abrupt _clunk_ of the door being opened forcefully interrupted the impasse. Tywin stalked in trailed by Lancel carrying a laptop and a bunch of papers. Tyrion turned to greet him with a brittle smile, a several fingers of whiskey in his glass. “Father, a pleasure as always.”

“Sit down,” Tywin muttered, barely looking at him as he commandeered the head of the table. “Let’s get on with it.”

Tyrion meandered back over next to Petyr. “Will my dearest sister and nephew be joining us?”

“They’re on their way,” he answered gruffly. He gestured to Lancel, who opened up a file to play on the large screen occupying one wall. The footage was grainy and silent but showed unmistakably a young white haired woman addressing a crowd passionately, who appeared to be eating up every word.

Tywin’s dry tone cut across the spectacle. “Daenerys Targaryen has now bought herself proper army in addition to her pack of nomads, and has taken both Astapor and Myreen.”

“She can conquer as many third world city-states as she likes, if she comes here I'm going to stick my assault rifle up her cunt and give her a few new holes,” Joffrey sneered from the open doorway, where he was flanked by his mother, great uncle Kevan, and giant of a bodyguard. The meeting place was purposed to make it easier for the young king, but the boy still managed to arrive late, his mother practically having to drag him in by his ear. He wondered if the assembled noticed the stigmata of dependence--twitchy eyes, sniffling nose, pupils blown to a sliver edge of iris, fidgeting like bugs were crawling up and down his back. He held in a satisfied smirk; the boy had certainly managed to pick up some habits from the cuckolded dead king, with no small thanks to Petyr playing the part of obliging dealer.

“Thank you for your contribution, Your Grace. Now, if you please,” his grandfather answered tiredly, gesturing for him to take a seat. As always, Tywin had unquestioned command of the room if not the grand house itself, Joffrey merely playing at authority, and badly at that. The manchild sulked his way to the foot of the table, his mother and her uncle settling on either side and the Hound standing over him. The noticeable absence of Roose Bolton in the gathering brought Petyr a tiny spark of satisfaction. It made his task easier and boded well for the wedge he was actively driving between the elder Bolton and the Lannisters, the king in particular.

“Of greater concern is confirmation I’ve been given that the Targaryen girl is being financed by parties within Westeros,” Tywin continued, turning his penetrating gaze on Varys. “Does our Master of Whispers have anything to add to this conversation? Can you explain why I am presenting this information rather than you?”

The eunuch paled imperceptibly, clearly blindsided. “I’m sorry, my lord, I had no verifiable information from my contacts--”

Tywin interrupted, his expression cold and unforgiving. “You were tasked with eliminating Daenerys Targaryen months ago, and yet she lives. You assure us that you’re doing everything in your power to gather information and yet I get this third-hand from an exiled slave trader. What exactly have you been doing with your time?”

Petyr smirked, watching Varys squirm across from him. _How does it feel, my friend?_ The money trail had been fiendishly difficult to follow, but Baelish was persistent. He could drop more pieces of it into the lap of the Lannister patriarch as needed now.

Varys swallowed. “I apologize, my lord, Your Grace,” he glanced down the opposite end of the table at Joffrey. “I’ll find out--"

“Bring us the traitors in our midst by the next meeting, or we’ll be looking for a new Master of Whispers,” Tywin commanded, his voice soft yet glacial. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord.” Varys bowed his head in deference, duly chastened.

“And now, for our next bit of business.” Tywin’s attention shifted to his son. “Did you bring us any progress, or merely more disappointment?”

Tyrion smiled nastily at his father and tossed a small flash drive to Lancel, who caught it and inserted it into the laptop with ill humor.

“We really don't need to see your porn collection, Uncle. We have Baelish here for that,” Joffrey brayed, to the amusement of no one else in the room. Petyr smiled tightly and managed a self-deprecating nod toward the immature monarch.

“Oh how I have missed your wit, dear nephew,” Tyrion grumbled, taking command of the mouse on the table to click through to the files he needed. He pulled up diagrams and maps outlining skirmishes, detailing the various successes and failures with a frosty air to match his father’s. Petyr compared them to the information he'd already extracted from Stark with satisfaction, seeing the patterns layer upon one another neatly. Tyrion didn’t get far into his report before he was interrupted.

“Stannis has barely a company of men, how hard could this possibly be?” Cersei spoke up from the down the table, painted claws tapping against the glass of wine he presumed had been fetched for her by Lancel, who waited over her shoulder like a kicked puppy.

“I’m glad you asked, sweet sister.” Tyrion turned to address her with needling deliberation. “Considering the fact that we're fighting a band of fanatics using guerrilla warfare in a hostile terrain, I’d rate the difficulty of our task as rather high. But perhaps you think differently. Care to enlighten us on how _you_ would proceed?”

“Maybe if you spent less time drinking and playing with your dicks like little boys, you might have made more progress than this,” she fired back.

Tyrion gave her a saccharine smile. “You would know far better than I what Jaime does with his cock--”

“Enough!” Tywin snapped. Petyr had to suppress a smirk. One generally had to pay for this kind of entertainment, but the Lannisters could be relied on to provide it in spades for free.

“What are those figures over there?” Kevan asked pointing, sadly redirecting the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“We suspect Stannis has been bolstering his numbers with wildling aid,” Tyrion replied, still eyeing Cersei balefully.

“Wildlings?” Kevan mused, clearly surprised. “There haven’t been wildlings south of the Wall in significant numbers for a century.”

Before Tyrion could expound further, Cersei dove back in the conversation. “Even if that were true, I find it hard to believe a tribe of savages throwing rocks and sticks could really be giving a vaunted military mind like yourself such trouble,” she ridiculed, sipping her wine with superiority.

“Let’s just bomb the shit out of it and be done with it,” Joffrey groused, making a show of being bored to tears.

Tyrion huffed, appraising the boy in irritation. “Your Grace, where do you think your power comes from?” he inquired, his tone deceptively casual.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes in dumb confusion. “Huh?”

His uncle cocked his head to the side, eyes flashing in anticipation. “Your right to rule, where did you get it?”

“From the gods,” the king asserted petulantly.

“Tell me, which one of them came down from the heavens and handed you your crown? Was it the Father? The Mother? Perhaps the Crone hobbled over to drop it off on her way to divine bingo,” Tyrion speculated, stroking his chin in thought theatrically.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Joffrey blustered, glaring at his uncle.

“People, Your Grace,” he delivered with significance. “People living under the collective delusion that one man deserves power over another for the arbitrary circumstances of being pushed kicking and screaming out of a womb seeded by a specially designated cock. At this moment, your place on the throne rests squarely on the willing backs of a few thousand perhaps, mostly aristocracy with a couple commoners to round out the numbers and do the hard work. There are millions more in this country who have no idea who you are outside of your questionable notoriety in gossip rags,” he said pointedly, taking Joffrey’s darkening expression in stride. He continued in a patronizing tone, “Perhaps no one ever told you how precarious this whole enterprise is, how easily it could come crumbling down. And how do you think Lord Stark will react when you start massacring his people, especially after humiliating his daughter in such public fashion?”

Joffrey shook his head in denial. “The Boltons will control it soon enough--”

Tyrion’s lip curled. “Perhaps, but for now it still remains in the hands of a proud, honorable man who likely despises you. The North is the largest single region on the continent, has the majority of our oil and natural gas reserves, and is populated by the most stubbornly loyal bunch of simpletons one could ask for. Loyal to Stark, that is, not to you. You’d be an idiot to risk open war against him,” he asserted. Petyr silently agreed, but felt it unwise to come to the Imp’s aid, especially as it would go against his own long-term objectives.

The king sputtered. “You can’t talk to me this way. I could have you executed!”

His uncle snorted. “You could, but it would be almost as foolish as your idea to unleash more weaponry on your own citizens--”

“Shut the fuck up, you little queer--” Joffrey raged, standing up in an attempted display of power that actually betrayed weakness.

Tyrion looked up at him, calm and controlled by contrast. “Call me what you like, it won’t make up for your deliberate ignorance--”

“Quiet!” Tywin’s voice boomed throughout the room in a rare display of discomposure. “That’s enough out of both of you.” He glared down the table at the squabbling pair. Petyr noticed the non-Lannister members of the meeting start to lean back out of the line of fire; even the malingering Grand Maester appeared attentive, which had to be some sort of record this far into a meeting.

Tyrion stared back at his father, then glanced around the table incredulously. “If the rest of you aren’t willing to beat the truth into his thick skull, I suppose it’ll have to be me.”

“I’ll beat your midget skull until your brains come out your goddamn _ears--_ ” Joffrey threatened, leaning toward him.

A sudden bang made them all jump. Tywin’s fist remained clenched on the table where he’d slammed it down. “Sit down, Your Grace,” he commanded, his sheer force of will lowering Joffrey back into his seat. “And you,” he turned his attention back to Tyrion, “I don’t want to see you back here without Stannis Baratheon’s head.”

Tywin and Tyrion locked eyes for a tense moment before the younger man pushed himself away from the table in disgust and marched out. Tywin’s choice to disregard his son’s counsel was a grave misstep, probably rooted in his irrational hatred and disgust for his own child and an unwillingness to admit in his arrogance that he didn’t have full control of the boy king. Baelish would take full advantage of it, regardless of the reasons.

Tywin watched his son go, then turned his attention back to the rest of the group. “We’re done,” he snapped, rising briskly and giving his brother a look, which prompted the younger man to stand as well. The two of them strode from the room without another glance behind them. The remaining parties sat in stunned silence for a second before snapping out of it and collecting themselves to leave. Baelish gathered his things slowly, expecting Joffrey to pull him aside.

The Lannister that appeared over his shoulder, however, wasn’t the boy, but his mother. The queen’s cold voice abraded his ears. “Littlefinger!"

He turned to greet the woman standing over him imperiously. “Your Grace?” he answered mildly.

The cruelty in her face marred whatever beauty might be found there as she leaned toward him, her voice a harsh whisper. “You might have charmed my son into letting you live with your vile flesh menagerie, but don’t think for a minute I don’t see you for the vermin you are.” Baelish remained calm, his expression placid as he waited for her to continue. Were he so inclined (he was not), he might've told her that the more impressive feat had been convincing her father that his wares were useful in keeping Joffrey occupied so that the elder man would be free to do the actual work of ruling the kingdom. Helpful and servile counterbalanced untrustworthy quite well, especially when one made oneself as minor a threat as possible. Cersei sneered, “You can own as many castles as you like; you’ll never be more than the gutter trash you came from.”

“As you say, Your Grace,” he bowed his head in submission but maintained eye contact in a manner he knew was galling. She gave him one final glare before flouncing off. He watched her leave in a huff, smirking subtly. He turned back to his pile of belongings and stood, but again didn’t get far.

“Stay, Baelish,” Joffrey called to him from where he was still sulking at the other end of the table, twirling his phone absently.

“Of course Your Grace.” He made his way toward the imbecile, smiling smugly at a rather dour-faced Varys moving in the other direction as he went. He waited until the rest aside from the Hound left. It could have been his imagination, but it seemed the large man was glaring at him with more heat than his usual generalized misanthropy. _Strange._ He ignored it, however, taking the empty seat next Joffrey. “May I offer my congratulations for your recent engagement to the very lovely Miss Tyrell?” he ventured carefully.

Joffrey looked up finally, a smile displacing the undignified pout that had been sitting there. “She is, isn’t she? She’ll make such a better queen than that stupid bitch.”

Petyr offered a fulsome smirk. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

The boy eyed him for a minute, his expression trying for thoughtful. It was unconvincing. “Do you miss the Stark whore, Baelish?” Joffrey asked with manner that, if one were extremely charitable, might eventually approach cunning, if only by pure luck.

Petyr shrugged. The truth--he'd sooner be able to cease breathing than not feel her absence as a physical ache--was at the tip of his tongue, but the lies that rolled off it were as disgusting as they needed to be. “To be honest Your Grace, I find myself tripping over better snatch on a daily basis, and haven’t had much time to think about it,” he returned cavalierly.

Joffrey howled with laughter, spitting his glee at Petyr, who managed not to flinch at being assaulted with flecks of royal slobber. “I should’ve known you would be, you lucky cunt.” Littlefinger reflected the mean humor thrown at him easily, burying his hatred beneath an unctuous grin. When the boy had sobered, he again appraised him arrogantly, declaring, “Margaery wants an engagement party at your club.”

It was less a question than a statement of intent that neglected to take Petyr’s own wishes or convenience into account, but he wasn’t surprised. “I would of course be honored, Your Grace. Please forgive me for not offering it first. Did the two of you have a date in mind?”

“Next Friday, she said,” he responded absently as his phone buzzed. He sent off a text to someone, most likely the woman in question. He had to admire the girl’s skill in manipulating the mad toddler; she’d learned much from her grandmother.

“You’ll have the place to yourselves, with my compliments,” Petyr assured him. _Excellent._ The timing would be tight, but manageable.

Joffrey turned his attention back to Baelish. “You brought the stuff?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He slipped a small vial of powder from a pocket and placed it on the table in front of the king. He disliked touching it himself--he had people for that--but the inbred moron insisted on making him hand it out like candy, probably just to annoy him in a petty power play.  Joffrey picked it up and snorted the contents unabashedly. Baelish was used to bearing witness to all sorts of depravity no one ever thought to ask his leave for before indulging. It came with the territory. As the boy sat back in satisfaction, sniffling and rubbing his nose, Petyr took a gamble on broaching the subject of the other half of his plan. “Forgive me if I seem too forward, but I wholly agree with your assessment of Stark. Your uncle, intelligent as he is, doesn’t have your keen insight or power of conviction.” He was laying it on a bit thick, but the stoned tyrant was listening with rapt attention. “The man is weak, and grows more so by the day. He and his forces could be disposed of quite handily given the right set of circumstances.”

“And you think you can make those circumstances happen?” Joffrey tried narrowing his eyes in skepticism but was having trouble focusing.

“I believe I could but...” he trailed off, letting doubt show in his face.

The king looked impatient. “But what?”

“I'm afraid it would require the assistance of a more...intrepid agent than Lord Bolton, at least as he has been of late.” Littlefinger opened his hands in apology. Joffrey frowned, the rusty wheels of deliberation turning behind unintelligent eyes.

After what felt like an age, the king finally declared, “Ramsey could do it.”

_Good._ He wasn’t going to have to drag the stupid bastard to the conclusion kicking and screaming. “Yes, Your Grace, I believe he could,” Petyr concurred, watching Joffrey preen at his own cleverness. “There is one thing,” he offered tentatively. “It is only a rumor, but duty compels me to tell you, especially considering your friendship with Lord Ramsey--”

“Just spit it out, Baelish,” Joffrey ordered, waving a hand carelessly.

Petyr swallowed as if nervous, giving his mark an uncertain look. “My sources tell me Lord Bolton has begun the process of disowning his naturalized son in favor of the baby his new wife just gave birth to, and removing him from his place in their company as well.” Bolton may or may not be doing so at that moment--it would be the smart move considering the pile of steaming shit the boy had landed his father in--but he doubted either Joffrey or Ramsey would be prudent enough to ask for proof before acting. It was a risk he was willing to take.

“Useless fucking coward,” Joffrey snarled, standing up suddenly. “Sitting around doing _nothing_ and he thinks he can get away with cutting Ramsey out?” He stomped from the room in a drug-fueled lather.

Baelish got to his feet and made to follow, but found a human wall in his way. An ugly scarred face peered down at him in fury. Petyr tensed, anticipating a blow for some sort of crime he must’ve committed, in Clegane’s inscrutable mind at least. He was saved the pain by an unexpected source. “Come, Dog!” Joffrey bellowed from the hallway. The man glared at him for a beat more before turning away to obey his liege. As Baelish strode gingerly behind him, he risked a glance to his own phone and saw Sansa’s reply to the text he’d sent earlier. Something like hope unfurled in his chest; he would finally see her tonight, and he’d have more good news to share. He anticipated having to continue to suffer in his part as Joffrey’s penitent sycophant and errand boy for a while longer in the meantime, however, and willed time to run faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up too ungainly so I decided to split it. The second half will hopefully be following soon, and a final chapter after that. Thanks so much to everyone reading and commenting!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Your heart felt good_   
>  _It was drippin' pitch and made out of wood._   
>  _And your hands and knees_   
>  _Felt cold and wet on the grass to me_
> 
> _Everything that keeps me together is falling apart_  
>  _I've got this thing that I consider my only art_  
>  _Of fucking people over._  
>  -Modest Mouse, _3rd Planet_

Sansa let out a disgusted sigh, eyes narrowed on the passage she was laboriously attempting to paraphrase to bolster the main themes of her argument. It felt like she was doing the author's job in splicing together something coherent out of the mess of prolixity vomited on the page in front of her. She took a well-deserved sip of mocha, and became aware of someone standing over her. The girl was familiar; she lived in the same building though on a different floor, and ran in different social circles. Sansa wondered what cause she had to interrupt her study session. From the haughty expression of anticipation on the woman’s face, it could be nothing good.

“Is it true you were screwing that limpdick old bastard? The skeezy club owner?” she prodded, following up the query with a moue of disgust.

Sansa hated when she was right sometimes. The nosy girl surely meant Petyr, but while ‘old’ was relative, the other half of the aspersion confused her. She sincerely doubted he could be as impotent as the woman was suggesting unless he’d been mainlining Viagra whenever he was with her. More worrisome was the fact that she’d been asked the question in the first place; she'd thought Joffrey would be reluctant to spread the news of her infidelity for how it would threaten his own masculinity, but apparently she was wrong. “Pardon?” she asked, keeping her face and tone neutral.

“Myranda said she tried everything to get him hard but he didn’t even twitch. Such a shame,” she lamented. “From what she told me, his nickname is misleading.”

Sansa felt a touch of vindication. Evidently, Petyr had been telling her the truth in not desiring that wretched whore. She wasn’t going to indulge the impertinent bitch’s curiosity, however. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” She widened her eyes as if in confusion.

The slag looked down at her with false pity. “Oh honey, you know you weren’t ever going to do better than Joffrey, but have some self respect at least.”

She knew how the girl saw her, a pitiful castoff so desperate for attention she was willing to debase herself with the lowest sort of man. _Aren’t you?_ The hateful voice inside taunted, cutting deeper than anything her accoster could ever say. Anger flared. Fortunately they were alone in this area of the library at the moment, so she felt comfortable striking back. “I fuck him because he eats me out and makes my problems disappear, and he's very good at both. Anything else you were curious about?” she spat venomously, glaring at the impertinent girl.

Her inquisitor flinched, stepping back before recovering, assessing her with far more consideration than before. She gave an offended huff, then stormed off. Sansa sighed in annoyance. Her first impulse was to text Petyr. Shaking her head and chastising herself for the weakness the urge represented, she tried to refocus on her paper. She would address it with him when they met later that night.

************

Sansa shoved the hangers of shirts back and forth, listening to the ‘clack’ of the metal hooks hitting one another as she searched for items she would vaguely consider wearing. She selected one in her size that wasn’t actively offensive, then checked her phone again for the text she was expecting. Such subterfuge felt ridiculous, but Petyr had said they couldn’t afford for anyone--Varys especially--to know she was still in contact with him. She moved on to another rack, picking up a pair of jeans that she actually liked. Finally, her phone buzzed with the anticipated message. Subtly checking in the mirrored walls of the shop around her, she headed for the fitting rooms. She walked past the first few stalls, then opened the last one and hung her purchases on the hook inside. After ascertaining no one was paying her any attention, she slipped through the unlocked door at the end of the corridor marked ‘employees only’ into the back room. She was grateful not to hear any alarms, which meant the man she was meeting had done his job. She strode quickly through the empty stockroom and out another door.

Xho was leaning against the wall by the loading dock, a lit cigarette in his hand. He flicked it away when he saw her, greeting her with a small smile which she returned, and beckoned her toward a car parked a few feet away. A well-built man with a closely shaved head sat in the driver’s seat nodded at her curtly in the rear view mirror as she got in, Xho opening the door for her before his own. “Good evening, miss.”

“Hello, Mr. Brune,” she replied softly. She’d learned that his shortness was a personality trait rather than reflection on how he felt about anyone in particular. The ride to the club was swift and silent, though not uncomfortable. When they arrived, she took Petyr’s private elevator to the room behind his office. She was a bit surprised to see Petyr standing next to Margaery by his desk, talking in low tones. She watched the conversation continue through the one-way glass for a few more moments, then reach an evidently amicable conclusion as Margaery put a hand on his chest then kissed him on the cheek before departing.

Had she been replaced so easily? Nothing in Petyr’s body language suggested even a hint of interest or welcome of the contact. Then again, how well did she truly know him? She shook her head, dismissing the irrational jealousy and prepared herself for the encounter ahead. When he locked and bolted the door to his office, she felt it safe to enter.

She hadn't actually seen him since that night, only exchanging text messages and the occasional email. As she stepped into the room she was immediately struck by the huge cracks in the glass panes overseeing the floor of the club. “What happened to your window?” she asked in concern.

“I threw a bottle at it,” he stated simply as if that were a sufficient answer to the question. He looked...terrible, if she were being honest. The lines of his face had deepened, and there seemed to be more gray in his beard than before. He walked toward her but stopped a few feet away, eyes drinking her in like he’d been stranded in a desert and his hands twitching at his sides as if he were having to restrain himself from touching her. She eyed the bandage on his neck with some guilt.

She didn’t close the distance between them, instead studying him carefully before inquiring, “What did Margaery want?”

He smirked. “To express her gratitude for all I’ve done for her and her future husband, including throwing them an engagement party.”

“But she just accepted the proposal. Isn’t she going to be rather disappointed at how brief her reign as queen will be?” she wondered, a bit confused. Margaery had worked long and hard for the opportunity to be Joffrey’s wife, and their indecently swift engagement had stirred the social pages almost as much as the pictures that had ended his last one with her. Her former friend certainly wouldn’t have much chance to reap the benefits of being married to the king if they killed him. Her presence here and Petyr’s smugness suggested the plan wouldn’t be news to the ambitious woman, however.

He shrugged. “Evidently her grandmother has decided the match is no longer a good investment in light of Joffrey’s increasingly unpredictable and violent behavior. It was easier to agree to it and dispose of him after than deal with his volatile temper at a refusal, apparently.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And they came to you? Do they know they're being played?”

His grin widened. “Probably. Little gets past Olenna. Either way they’ll owe us.”

She looked down at his desk absently, absorbing the information for a moment, then let the matter drop. If the Tyrells were willing to pay for something she and Petyr were going to do anyway, so much the better. Abruptly, the significance of what he’d said earlier struck her. She looked back up again, and noticed that he’d managed to sidle closer to her silently in the interim. “We have a date then.”

He smiled, and the boyishness of it contrasted sharply with the bloodthirsty subject matter of which they spoke. “Yes, we do.”

She swallowed, her mouth feeling dry. She wasn’t nervous, exactly, but suddenly everything they’d been working for over months carried new weight and substance; it was actually going to happen. “When?”

He eyed her eagerly as he delivered the information. “Next Friday.”

 _Six days._ It wasn’t much time but it would have to be enough. “Did you tell my father yet?”

He shook his head. “I wanted you to know first.”

Sansa nodded and her mind wandered, starting to rehearse everything that would need to be accomplished to ensure all went as planned. A glaring wrinkle disrupting the carefully woven fabric of their plans made her frown and bring up the subject that had plagued her into unproductivity earlier. “Myranda is running her mouth about us. I’m guessing Joffrey or Ramsey told her.”

Petyr tilted his head in inquiry. “What do you want to do about it?” He’d already offered to kill the bitch for her once already, and looked perfectly willing to take her up on it again at present.

She shook her head. “I’m not sure yet.”

“If we go after Ramsey she’ll need to be taken care of,” he warned.

She sighed. “I know.” She glanced down again, studying the surface of Petyr’s desktop, tracing the random patterns of the expensive wood with a forefinger. He stepped closer, his hand dropping to the desk alongside hers which enabled him to lean in close enough that her next inhalation was laced with the subtle undertones of his cologne. The next topic of conversation would be much harder to get through. “I had an interesting conversation with Dr. Corvus,” she announced, focusing on the hand next to hers--the long, deft fingers with neatly trimmed nails, always clean, and the flashy rings he favored, the elegant lines of sinew and muscle overlaid by branching veins.

“Oh?” he responded neutrally.

She brought her eyes to lock with his, searching the silvery green of them carefully. “He implied you had history with Aunt Lysa in addition to my mother.”

Petyr smiled mirthlessly. “That’s one way to put it.” He sighed, stepping back for the first time, gaze wandering as he took the opportunity to gather his thoughts. She waited a bit impatiently; he had to have been expecting the question. Finally, he spoke again, his attention returning to her. “You know I loved your mother, had done since we were children.” She nodded, not wanting to interrupt but noting the awkward tense he used. “Your aunt, on the other hand, fancied herself in love with me. But I never wanted her, and your mother never wanted me. Such a fucking mess.” He chuckled, a dry, almost pained thing. It wasn’t exactly new information to her; she’d gleaned such from pieced-together snippets of overheard conversation between her parents.

“After the fight with your uncle Brandon, when I was released from the hospital, I tried to talk to your mother, but she never seemed to have the time or inclination to speak with me. One night, I managed to get her alone for more than five minutes, but even then, though I pleaded with her, she still wouldn’t listen to me.” Resentment was writ in every word and gesture, which she could hardly blame him for. He huffed, “Finally, she told me she’d chosen your uncle despite what he’d done, and that I’d been the fool to challenge him and had to bear the consequences. That she picked him over me was hardly shocking, I’d expected it on some level. What really hurt was that he’d cut me open, carved me up like one of the animal carcasses he loved to butcher, and she didn’t even _care_.” His eyes flashed in fury, and malice twisted his features to reveal the shadows of cruelty living there that seemed to come out to play when he looked at anyone but her. “Your mother has a penchant for cold, unyielding apathy and a particular talent for brutal dismissal, as you may have experienced.” Sansa bit her lip; she hadn’t been made to bear the brunt of it herself, but she’d seen it directed at her father and Jon in particular often enough. The parallels between Petyr and her half-brother were eerie.

“I stumbled back to my room, almost passing out from the pain. My ribs hurt more and more with every breath, so I took a painkiller, and when that didn’t work, another, and another, eventually resorting to the alcohol I had stashed away to blunt the memory,  if not the agony itself. I was lying there in a stupor when I heard a knock on the door. I remember thinking it was your mother, and she’d finally confessed to returning my feelings. I have vague impressions of the night that followed, but nothing distinct.” Petyr looked away for a moment and crossed his arms, a rare gesture of vulnerability.

“When I woke the next morning, my chest was still on fire and your aunt was lying next to me in the bed. I crawled to the bathroom, vomited, and downed another handful of pills.” The combination of pain and rage in his eyes hurt to look at, and she wanted to offer him some sort of comfort, but held back. Horror filled her in a surge of empathy, which she was sure must have been visible on her face; they were more alike than she could have guessed, both bearing phantom scars of having a basic, fundamental trust violated by someone they knew. She wondered if he’d ever told anyone else before.

His fingers tightened on his arms, creasing the expensive material of his suit jacket, before releasing as he brought his gaze back to hers. “I didn't wake up properly again for almost a month after that. And then it was only because your grandfather exiled me to the Fingers for the unforgivable crime of defiling his daughter.” His lips curled in black amusement. “I’m actually surprised it took that long, to be honest, but I suppose impregnating her was the last straw. She told me she did it on purpose so that we could be married.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You kept on sleeping with her?” The question slipped out without her meaning for it to.

He shrugged casually. “I was generally too out of it from pain or fucked up on opiates to care.” She was disturbed on several levels but could hardly judge him for it, as she had done the same with Joffrey out of self-preservation. Whatever his reasons, she would listen if he wanted her to know them. He went on in the same even, almost bland tone, undeterred by her interruption. “But it wouldn’t have mattered even if I had wanted to marry her. Hoster Tully wasn’t about to allow his illustrious blood to mix with the spawn of a Braavosi sellsword. He made her abort it.”

A chill swept through her at the revelation. When he’d told her he’d once gotten a woman pregnant, she had no idea the story could be so tragic and horrible. “Would you have wanted to keep it?” she asked tentatively.

He jerked his shoulders in another deliberately careless shrug. “By the time I’d sobered up, it was already done. I wasn’t given a choice in the matter, and neither was Lysa. After that, I didn’t speak to any of them for years.”

She could hardly blame him for that. How devastated he must’ve felt--rejected, abused and humiliated, stripped of control, torn away from the family he’d latched onto in the wake of his own’s demise only to be banished to a place she knew he despised. It likely had done much to shape him into what he was now. One bit of it stuck out as odd to her, though, and prompted her to ask, “If she was in love with you, why did she marry Uncle Jon?”

He raised an eyebrow but responded. “Your grandfather forced her. He would’ve disowned her if she hadn’t, and your aunt isn’t terribly self-sufficient.”

“That’s barbaric,” she spat, grimacing. _Family, duty, honor_. Words her mother’s house lived by used to justify horrific crimes against their own. She’d known her mother’s brief relationship with her uncle had been--not quite arranged, exactly, but suggested by the two families as a sort of compromise between marriage contracts and the freedom commoners enjoyed. After his death, her mother and father falling in love and marrying had been a minor scandal, but accepted by the families as fulfillment of the pact they’d intended on making. Fortunately, her own parents had made it clear that they had no such expectations for their own children. Robb’s relationship with Talisa made a few of the older generation grumble, but her father had been quick to silence the disparaging ‘foreigner’ comments, from his own side in particular, and their marriage had done much to make her a welcome part of the family.

Petyr’s demeanor turned cooly reflective as he leaned on the desk again. “She was never happy with him. It made it easier for me to pry information from her, keeping her dangling with empty promises and spurious affection.”

“She lost it after he died though,” she argued, perturbed by both his impassivity and the way his disclosures reshaped her memories of her aunt and uncle.

“You mean after she killed him,” he corrected.

Sansa could only stammer in denial, dismayed. “She what--no, he had a heart attack--”

Petyr shook his head insistently. “Not without help.”

“ _Why?_ Why would she do such a thing?” she demanded, appalled.

Something like regret passed over his face. “Because she thought I would marry her if she did so. I’d been setting her up to poison him for months, but I changed my mind and called it off. I underestimated her madness, however, and she did it anyway.” His expression turned cold for a second as he added, “It was part of the reason I had her locked up.” She could guess at his other motivations for imprisoning her aunt in the insane asylum all too well.

She took a step away from him warily. “Why did you want him dead?”

It looked like he wanted to move toward her but stayed still. “He was getting too close to the secret of Cersei’s bastards, and it would have been troublesome for someone competent to unearth that information at the time,” he explained, deceptively conversational. “I was going to have her pin it on the Lannisters and tell your mother to set your families against each other. His death conveniently put an end to his office’s interference in my business as well.”

It was all very logical and not a little alarming. “What stopped you?” she asked cautiously, needing to understand the convoluted sequence of decisions he seemed to have made.

Some of the hunger he always regarded her with returned to his gaze. “You did.”

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “What?”

“I met you,” he reiterated evenly, as if that was all the explanation needed.

“We barely knew each other, Petyr,” she argued, uneasy.

He grinned oddly. “I knew endangering your family would hardly predispose you toward me.”

She took an uneven breath. That he would alter his plans so drastically like that was bizarre and irrational. Though if he had been that invested in a relationship with her so early, it explained his dogged, almost disquieting pursuit of her. Even in that first meeting, he’d been improperly forward, encroaching on her personal space and touching her far too much for their respective ages and positions. He’d behaved like an utter creep, but she’d been unsure as to whether she enjoyed the untoward advances or not. At the time, she hadn’t experienced anything like the intensity of his focus before, and it gave her a thrill stuck somewhere between pleasure and disgust as he pushed the bounds of propriety. She had been unable to hold in the blush at his breath hot on her neck, tensed uneasily under his hand when he rested it on her arm but hadn’t shrugged it off, felt her stomach twisting at the solid press of his leg against hers yet hadn’t chosen to pull away from him or turn to her sister or Septa Mordane for help. It was wrong, perverse, everything her parents had warned her against, but she let it happen regardless. His amatory efforts had only intensified in the ensuing years. She’d thought him a lech, and she wasn’t wrong, but she would find out as they met again every so often that he was an uncannily devoted one. She never saw him behave similarly with anyone else, and he’d confirmed her impressions of his unorthodox brand of fidelity after the incident with Myranda. “So if you hadn’t fixated on me, you were going to use Uncle Jon’s death to start a war?” she questioned slowly, wanting clarity in the course of events.

Contrition mixed with desire in his expression. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice rough.

But for a twist of fate, her father bringing herself and Arya to King’s Landing on a whim to attend a sporting event with an old friend, he would’ve happily led her entire family to slaughter. It made her blood run cold even as she understood the pain and anger that drove him to do it--gods, of course she did, it was the same need for vengeance and retribution that spurred her own vendetta. His machinations had still gotten her uncle killed, whether he meant them to or not, and the conflict between her family and the Lannisters happened regardless of his intentions. The latter she couldn’t blame him for, however. She laughed hollowly. “I accomplished that all by myself, didn’t I?” She’d invited the monsters into their lives when she chose Joffrey. He stayed silent but his stare was disquisitive.

She closed her eyes to it, emotions in turmoil and thoughts jumbled. She felt his hand settle on her shoulder, and shrugged it off reflexively, her gaze snapping to his. “Are there any other members of my family that you’ve fucked or planned to have murdered?” The words came out sharper than she’d meant them to, unfair and fashioned to wound in self-defense. He flinched, pain showing briefly in his face before he buried it.

“No, but…” he swallowed, “Your half-brother, Jon…” he trailed off, watching her cautiously.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What about him?”

“He is not your father’s son, but your Aunt Lyanna’s,” he announced with conviction.

She shook her head, thrown at yet another outlandish notion. “That’s crazy. She was kidnapped and murdered by Rhaegar Targaryen--”

“No,” he interrupted, insistent but patient. “She ran away with him, got pregnant, and died in childbirth. Rare and unfortunate in this day and age, but it happens.”

“Why would my father lie?” she wondered, perplexed.

“Robert would most likely have killed him, both for being Targaryen and therefore a threat to his rule and out of jealousy because he loved your aunt,” Petyr explained calmly.

She protested, still having trouble accepting it. “But all these years, all the pain it’s caused…” It meant her mother had been punishing Jon for absolutely no reason, not even the unjust and irrational one in her mind, for two decades, and her father had let him. Outrage shot through her at the unfairness of it all; her brother--for he would remain such in her mind for the part he played in her life--deserved better than to live as his supposed father’s shame. “He deserves to know,” she declared hotly.

Petyr raised an eyebrow. “If you wish to inform him, that is your choice, but I would advise waiting until after the situation with the Lannisters is resolved.”

“Why are you only telling me this now?” she challenged, trying to read him.

He opened his hands in a gesture of entreaty, a bit frustrated. “You asked. You wanted the truth, and now you have it, in all its ugly glory,” he declared. “ I've never lied to you, and what I held back I did out of consideration for your safety.” She weighed the verisimilitude of the statement against the likelihood he had additional reasons to wait until now to reveal some of the information, and found it didn’t matter as much as it might’ve. He reached for her with a hand then drew it through his hair in exasperation when she balked. “I'm sorry. If I could undo what I've done to hurt you, I would.”

His apology seemed sincere, for what it was worth. She sighed. “You can't, any more than I can take back what my family has done to you.” She looked away, focusing on the random pattern of cracks in the windows until she felt him grasp her hands. She hadn’t realized she’d been clenching them together until he pried them apart gently, smoothing over the reddened indentations she’d made in her skin with the pads of his fingers. He used his grip to pull her closer to himself, then released a hand to bring it up to cradle her face. She hesitated, but didn’t resist as he drew her lips to meet his. She let her eyes drift close as his thumb brushed her cheek,  opening her mouth under his entreating tongue. He pressed her back into the desk, one or both of them groaning at the contact. The feel of him against her, breathing him in, the taste of his mouth devouring hers--the sensations were overwhelming, as if they’d been parted for much longer than a few weeks. He lifted her up onto the desk and settled between her legs, pulling her toward himself with a tight grip. When he broke off the kiss to move down her neck, hand inching her shirt up, she managed to come back to herself. It took every ounce of will to push him away before she was utterly consumed. He tried to close the distance between them again but she held him back, hands flat against his chest.

“Sansa, what more do you want from me?” he demanded harshly, hanging his head low.

She started to slide her hands up to his shoulders but thought better of it. “Petyr…” she whispered.

His head snapped up, gaze burning into her. _“Please.”_ He was not a man who begged, ever, and the raw need in his eyes cut her on jagged edges.

She took a deep breath. “I have to think it over--”

“You’ve had weeks,” he growled. “How much more time do you need?”

“You can’t drop all this shit on me and expect me to be able to instantly process it, Petyr,” she insisted. In disclosing truths that may turn her against him, he’d given her exactly what she’d wanted even if she wasn’t prepared to hear it, and asked for acceptance she couldn’t bring herself to give him in return, not yet at least. The delight in chaos driven by deep burning anger and ruthless, destructive ambition wasn’t gone, merely redirected toward her own enemies, who had become his by circumstance. She didn’t fool herself into thinking she’d somehow changed him, or that she would ever be able to do so. Whatever relationship they might have would include the aspect of him that was Littlefinger, and she had yet to know if she could embrace it as well. “After all this is done...we’ll talk then.”

He stared at her, searching for something that he must’ve found after a bit of intense scrutiny. “I’m holding you to that,” he declared, eyeing her possessively.

“I promise,” she vowed, dropping her hands and trusting him not to push the issue. He disengaged himself from her reluctantly, giving her just enough space to hop off of the desk. “You said you had something to show me?”

He leaned around her to pluck something off the desk behind her, then held out an envelope toward her.

She took it gingerly, asking, “What is this?”

“Half of what we've taken off the once proud Lannister fortune,” he answered, his mouth twitching in a faint smirk.

She opened it. The listed bank accounts contained an ungodly amount of money, enough to easily buy Winterfell itself twice over, no doubt soaked in the blood of Lannister victims. She shook her head, frowning. “I don't want it.”

His brow furrowed in annoyance. “It's already been signed over to you. If this all goes badly, and it well might, you’ll have it to get yourself and your family out.”

She shook her head. “I can't take this--”

“I don't care what you do with it if you don't end up needing it, donate it to charity if you like, but until then take it,” he urged, eyes flashing in displeasure.

They glared at one another for a heated moment before she relented. “Fine,” she huffed, tucking the envelope in a pocket reluctantly. “Was there anything else?”

He nodded, looking pleased. “There are several options awaiting your inspection downstairs.”

He led her out of the office and down the hall toward the elevators, crowding her space as if he were tethered to her, unable to step further away, and his hand was as close to the small of her back as he could get without actually touching her, though she felt it all the same. She let it stay, even as it seemed to burn like a brand there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. I'd like to thank everyone who's been following along so far, I definitely couldn't have done it without you!


	23. Chapter 23: The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> _Show me how to lie_  
>  _You’re getting better all the time_  
>  _And turning all against the one_  
>  _Is an art that’s hard to teach_  
>  _Another clever word_  
>  _Sets off an unsuspecting herd_  
>  _And as you step back into line_  
>  _A mob jumps to their feet_  
>     
>  _Now dance, fucker, dance_  
>  _Man, he never had a chance_  
>  _And no one even knew_  
>  _It was really only you_
> 
> _And now you steal away_   
>  _Take him out today_   
>  _Nice work you did_   
>  _You’re gonna go far, kid_
> 
> _With a thousand lies_  
>  _And a good disguise_  
>  _Hit ‘em right between the eyes_  
>  _Hit ‘em right between the eyes_  
>  _When you walk away_  
>  _Nothing more to say_  
>  _See the lightning in your eyes_  
>  _See ‘em running for their lives_  
>  -The Offspring, _You’re Gonna Go Far Kid_

Ramsay snorted the rest of the thin line of powder off the back of his hand, blacking out for a brief moment as the drug hit his brain in a wonderful rush, then put the remainder in a pocket; it was just a taste for now to get warmed up for the party later. He stepped over the pool of red seeping from his father’s chest, twirling the knife in blood-slicked fingers. Fortunately, he could enjoy the sport without without worrying about the cleanup afterwards. Littlefinger would handle it, pin the blame on another, a Stannis loyalist, probably; the little creep had to do whatever Joffrey wanted now to make up for taking what wasn’t his, what belonged to the king. And once they eliminated the Starks, Ramsay would get the North, something his spineless cunt of a father hadn’t managed to do. He thought he might ask Joff if he could have a go at his bitch of an ex himself before they killed her. She’d always seemed boring to him, straightlaced, uptight, never wanting to put out, but her time with Littlefinger had to have made her more fun to play with; he must’ve trained her like one of his whores. Otherwise, why bother?

He turned away from his father’s fat wife kneeling on the ground, pleading for her child in a blubbery whine. _Pathetic_. He strode the few yards from the garden to the driveway, the world around him bright with sound and deafening in color. Growls mixed with the shriek of claws on metal crescendoed the closer he got to the cage on the back of the pickup truck he’d parked there earlier. He slid a hand along the rail, close enough to feel the air of snapping jaws twist over his knuckles, slaver making the dull alloy of the bars shine. He whistled at them, stoking the striving, snarling animals to a fervor. “How are my girls, hmm?”

Shuffling noises from behind him made made him look back at the obese woman attempting to flee in clumsy, stumbling lurches. He grinned; his dogs would eat well tonight.

*****************

Varys pulled off the main road and on to a dirt path cutting through the forest unmarked on any map and barely visible on the satellite data he'd reviewed before. His car’s suspension groaned at the mistreatment doled out by the uneven surface beneath its tires. The chosen venue was a bit dramatic for his taste, but he supposed he owed the girl that, considering the risk she was taking in meeting with him again. Besides, he had it checked out earlier in the day by one of his people, and though remote, it seemed harmless enough. Surveillance on the Stark girl indicated she’d headed out a bit earlier in the afternoon, and was likely at the designated spot by now.

He’d been a bit surprised to have gotten the message from her after all that had happened, but thought it worthwhile to hear her out given the potential ammunition she might have against Baelish. Somehow he’d lost the upper hand with the cunning bastard. It was a risky if bold move, he had to admit--pre-empting Varys’s attack by throwing himself at the sadistic feet of the boy king and confessing his sins, then countering by leaking information on the Targaryen queen to Tywin. Furthermore, to his consternation, Varys knew exactly what Littlefinger was trying to do in setting Joffrey against Tywin. Turmoil and a weak throne would ordinarily be beneficial to his own plans, but not if Baelish stood to gain as well. Additionally, the man had compromised the Dornish financial resources he’d been routing through Mopatis most vexingly. Daenerys wasn’t nearly ready for a proper attempt at reclaiming her homeland--though the war machines she’d recently acquired would go a long way to address the deficiencies--and the time needed to regroup and rebuild would delay them even more. Also, reshaping the political landscape to provide a receptive environment for the queen’s triumphant return was a work in progress requiring finesse and precision; the common people would be loathe to relinquish their sham democracy even to a monarch as beloved as Daenerys. If he could keep Stannis free to roam the North and divert Lannister attention a while longer, it might give him the space he needed to maneuver. On the other hand, he couldn’t bolster Robert’s true heir enough to let him prevail; the people wouldn’t love Stannis, but he was far more competent than Joffrey.

All of which would be moot, however, if he didn’t eliminate Baelish first. The one positive aspect was his little birds had told him dear Petyr hadn’t been faring well recently--short-tempered, sullen, lashing out at his employees, disheveled (for him), not at all his usual calm, collected self, which suggested, oddly, that he actually seemed to care for the girl. It hadn’t stopped him from betraying her, though. As the light began to fade, he pulled into a clearing of mostly dust and gravel. Sansa Stark stood in front of the rusty, almost unidentifiable vehicle parked opposite his by the treeline, hunched in on herself with dark circles under her eyes. A young man of medium height and black hair leant against the car behind her, arms crossed menacingly. It took him a moment to recognize him as one of Robert’s bastards.

“Hello, Varys,” the girl addressed him with cold voice and shuttered expression.

He nodded respectfully. “Miss Stark. I wasn't aware you were bringing a guest.” He decided to keep his knowledge of the man’s identity to himself.

She glanced behind herself to exchange a look with man, who reluctantly peeled himself off the car hood and got back in the driver’s seat. He continued to glare at Varys through the windshield, however. “My sister’s boyfriend,” she explained. “Sorry, but I had to be careful.”

He smiled politely. “Fair enough. What can I do for you?”

“You were right, about everything,” she sighed. She looked away for a moment, pain badly hidden in her expression before it formed into a resolute mask as she turned back to him. “I have what you wanted.”

He opened his hands at his sides in apology. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed, dear girl.”

She appeared bitter though unsurprised. “I don’t care, I just want to see him dead,” she spat in anger. “Can you do that?”

That he could certainly do. “It would be my pleasure,” he intoned smoothly, giving her a reassuring look.

She nodded then walked to the car and retrieved something from the back seat. As she made her way back over to him he noted the bag she carried. “I started copying everything I stole for him, just in case,” she said as she handed it to him; judging by the size and weight, it contained a laptop. A quick glance inside confirmed his guess. “I never thought I’d need it,” she admitted, watching him verify the contents with a twist of her lips.

“Thank you, Miss Stark. I’m sure it’ll prove most helpful,” he asserted as he rezipped it.

She eyed the bag in his hand balefully, adding, “It also has his operating system and malware programs loaded as well.”

Varys was impressed. Evidently he and Littlefinger had both underestimated her resourcefulness. “You’re aware what he’s likely to do if he finds out you’ve given me this?” Baelish was not a man capable of forgiveness or understanding.

She laughed bitterly. “I have nothing left to lose. Nothing they won’t soon take from me anyway,” she murmured. It was a fair assessment of her family’s chances of surviving the Lannister purge that was to come.

“I very much appreciate what you’ve given me, my lady,” he reiterated. He felt compelled to offer something in return, empty as it might be. “I could try to help you with your family--”

She shook her head, declining. “I’ve made other arrangements, thank you anyway.”

“As you wish,” he answered, bowing. “Farewell, Miss Stark. I do hope fortune treats you better in the future than she has of late.”

“Goodbye, sir.” She nodded back, then retreated to the beat-up car, getting into the passenger’s seat. Varys returned to his own, depositing the treasure trove of Littlefinger’s secrets on the seat beside him. He waited until the other vehicle roared to life, pulled away, and disappeared down a dirt road leading further into the woods to check his phone for updates. Nothing new of note popped up--even the perpetual troublemaker Baelish seemed too preoccupied with throwing the party for the king and soon-to-be queen that evening to get up to much trouble at the moment. He started his car and retraced his path at a steady pace, though was plagued by a nagging feeling of disquiet. He glanced over at the computer; he would have to check it over thoroughly, off-network of course. When he reached the main road, he stopped at the intersection to send off a message to an operative, but was distracted as he finally managed to pin down what had been bothering him during the exchange: _The Stark girl had been wearing gloves--_

He only had time to glimpse the laptop bag in the corner of his eye for a split second before his world dissolved in a supernova of white.

*****************

Myranda knocked back the rest of her high-proof drink, handing it off to one of the servers clad in material too skimpy to be properly termed clothing. The woman immediately offered her another, which she waved off in annoyance, too distracted by the disgusting sight over the girl’s shoulder. They’d only just arrived and Ramsay was already slobbering all over one of the sluts he liked, that Dothraki bitch again. No matter. He always came back to her. Besides, she would make her own fun in the meantime. She eyed some of the more impressive specimens on offer, letting the bassline punches of the music thrum through her. Littlefinger certainly had pulled out all the stops for the occasion; his very best--women, men, drugs, and drink--were on full display for Joffrey and his guests to see and play with as they wished, free of charge. Maybe she would take a few of the better ones to one of the special rooms. She spotted another of Ramsay’s favorites, and decided she was going to ensure that the woman would be in no condition for him to enjoy later. She stalked toward the stunning whore, currently suffering the advances of the Marbrand brothers. Before she could reach them and assert primacy over the pitiful clods, however, her path was blocked by a tall, shapely form.

“Your presence has been requested,” the red-haired woman announced over the din, nodding meaningful at her as she pressed a keycard in her hand before slipping away into the crowd. It was black, embossed with a mockingbird but bore no other markings. Triumph washed over her; her night’s prospects just gotten a great deal more promising.

The first time she'd made a pass at him at the club it had been idle fancy, a chance to see what the elusive, aloof man was about. He’d been a huge disappointment--she would have gotten a better reaction from a corpse. The only bright spot in the endeavor had been the opportunity to shove it in the Stark bitch’s face. Demonstrating yet again her clear advantage in desirability over the spoiled little princess had just been a bit of fun at the time. When she’d found out later that the slut had actually been fucking him, she’d laughed long and hard. Now she had another chance to bring Littlefinger to his knees, by invitation, no less. If he could be seduced by the likes of _Sansa Stark,_ he should be easy prey. She knew once she had her hooks in him, she and Ramsay could do whatever they wanted.

Myranda made her way to the bank of elevators, swiveling her hips enticingly, aware of the eyes on her. She smiled to herself; _let them all look_. The guards posted by the lifts stared at her impassively as she swiped the card. The door at the very end, smaller than the others, opened with a subtle chime. She stepped inside, noting the plusher furnishings of it and smiling at the significance. She’d been invited to take Littlefinger’s personal elevator, and if that didn’t signify evidence of his interest, nothing would. Oddly, when it started moving, the elevator went down rather than up. She dismissed it as immaterial, and focused on her strategy for the upcoming encounter. Maybe she could convince him to incorporate the Lyseni girl into their activities, she reflected, to liven it up if he proved as unsatisfactory as before.

When her journey came to an end a few moments later, she was a bit perturbed to see the doors open onto a bare, open room of rustic concrete, the only furnishing a metal chair in the center. She buried the unease beneath bravado; no doubt Baelish was into some kinky shit, and she could certainly improvise when the occasion called for it. The man in question stood beside the metal chair, engrossed in his phone, but looked up at the sound of her approaching heels _clack_ off the cement.

“Eager to pick up where we left off, weren't you?” she  drawled seductively, licking her lips as she watched him observe her saunter toward him with a calculating expression.

When she was almost close enough to touch him, his demeanor shifted oddly. He tilted his head to the side, and the words out of his mouth were as casual as they were unexpected to her. “Personally, I have no interest whatsoever in your loose pestilent cunt.”

Infuriated, she drew a hand back to slap him, but found it caught in a tight grip. Another clamped down over the other arm, holding her in place. She turned to look over her shoulder and met the dispassionate gazes of two men, and the first tendrils of fear slid down her spine. Baelish continued to speak as if nothing had happened. “But you’ve upset Sansa, and that I simply cannot abide,” he declared decisively. He nodded at the men behind her, and they started dragging her back, clawing desperately against her captors, screams echoing off unforgiving stone.

*******************

He could buy anyone and anything, but his gold couldn’t bribe his ornery digestive system into functioning. The Lord of Casterly Rock grunted in frustration, shifting on the piles-forming hard seat in discomfort, feeling his body betray him once again. He’d had his fill of miracle cures, grandiose charlatans promising instant relief but only delivering expensive quackery. Sighing, he refolded the newsprint to better display the crossword he’d partially completed. His pen skittered underneath the line of the next clue-- _A thousand eyes, and one._ He scoffed at the obvious answer, scribbling ‘Bloodraven’ in the allotted spaces with disdain. The quality of the periodical was definitely slipping. He’d be finished it well before his recalcitrant bowels emptied themselves.

A commotion outside his door disrupted his chain of thought. The sounds were faint, but unmistakably gunfire. Concerned but unflappable, he tried the intercom next to him--static was his only answer. Furthermore, his cell phone registered no service when he retrieved it from the windowsill. The shots and cries grew louder as he weighed his options. He called through the door and was unsurprised not to hear an answer from the guard who should have been patrolling on that floor. A few moments later, heavy footsteps made their presence known in the adjoining room.

“Lord Tywin. Unless you want everyone to know you died shitting on the toilet, come out now.” He recognized the dull, unimaginative voice barking from the other side of the door. Calmly, he collected his dignity about him, flushing the toilet and washing his hands methodically. Disengaging the lock and opening the door revealed the speaker to be who he suspected it would--Stannis Baratheon, surrounded by a cadre of troops. The self-proclaimed king looked a bit worse for wear, unshaven, his uniform simple black and wrinkled beneath body armor.

“Well this is a surprise. Did you tire of your Northern holiday, Stannis?” he inquired mildly, making his way over to his desk and seating himself, ignoring the weapons trained on him.

“You address His Grace with the honor he deserves, traitor,” the gruff cripple of an advisor next to Baratheon growled. Tywin barely spared him a glance before widening his survey to include the rest of the motley crew--they too looked haggard and lean. There was something familiar about the face of the boy to his left. _Stark’s bastard,_ he realized. The young man resembled his father most in the stubborn set of his mouth. There also appeared to be wildlings mixed in amongst the soldiers--the girl with unruly bright red hair standing next to Snow had to be, as well as the similarly disheveled man towering over them both. “If the lot of you kill him, I’ll give you more money than you can spend in a lifetime,” he offered. Seaworth spat on the floor in reply, and the men behind him seemed to shift restlessly.

Stannis held up a hand to forestall further retaliation. The ends of his mouth twisted up in an expression that might have been a smile in another lifetime. “I’m afraid your endless river of gold has run dry,” he rasped. “You’ve had a bad run of investments recently, I’ve been told, which is why the Iron Bank has decided to move in a different direction to recoup their significant lost assets .”

His gaze dropped to the smooth surface of the desk at the announcement. _Littlefinger._ It made sense now. This ploy displayed a level of sophistication far outstripping Eddard Stark’s capabilities. He wondered when the whoremonger had turned. He’d never liked him. Tywin looked back up, locking eyes with the dourest Baratheon. “If you don’t think the slippery little fuck won’t betray you as well, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” he warned, leaning forward enough to reach the gun he had taped to the underside of the desk, peeling it off carefully.

“I don’t need to trust him to use him,” Stannis asserted in clipped tones.

He smiled bloodlessly. “That was my thinking. I do hope it works out better for you.”

Baratheon eyed him coldly. “I’ll be gracious enough to give you two options. You can come with us to face the justice you deserve, or end this now; your choice,” the would-be king declared.

“Very well.” A look of understanding passed between the two men. Tywin pushed back in his chair, using the scrape of its legs across the wooden floor to cover the sound of him thumbing off the safety. He brought the gun up in a smooth motion to aim at Stannis, but only managed to raise it high enough to fire into the dense wood of the desk before he felt the hail of bullets tear through him.

*****************

Brienne rubbed the grit from her eyes tiredly, but it didn’t improve the unhelpful nature of the open documents staring at her from the computer screen in front of her. Additionally, the time at the bottom right-hand corner informed her that she’d missed yet another meal, and her heretofore quiescent stomach chose that moment to air its own complaints in the form of hunger pangs. The offices around her were dark and quiet; she was probably one of the few still in the building not on swing or night shift. Her phone buzzed on the desk, and when she picked it up, she noticed it was a blocked call on her alternate line.

Wary, she answered it. “Hello?”

“Commander Tarth.” The lilting tenor was unfamiliar, but had a smug, self-satisfied air that set her teeth on edge with only the utterance of her name. “How are you this fine evening?”

“Who is this? How did you get this number?” She only gave it out to victims and the organizations set up to help them and she suspected this man was neither.

“Merely a concerned citizen with something of interest to you,” he replied merrily.

Her jaw clenched. “Is this a joke?”

“No more than your investigation into Ramsay Bolton. How is that going, by the way? I hear it's been a bit disappointing thus far. Such a shame,” he tsked in mock sympathy.

She blurted out without thinking. “How did you--”

“Do I have your attention now, officer?” the man needled, not bothering to hide his amusement.

Brienne was silent for a moment, rattled. Commissioner Stark had put her on the case specifically because he trusted her as one of the few to do her job properly in the face of the powerful family’s influence, but she had been stymied every step of the way. Witnesses claiming Bolton bragged about skinning people alive soon recanted their statements or disappeared. The wealth of evidence they’d recovered from the Bolton farm fell prey to malfunctioning storage equipment in what had to be sabotage; they’d lost hundreds of samples, not just from the Bolton farm, compromising dozens of cases. As much as she didn’t want to indulge the asshole on the other end of the line, if he really did have information, she could sorely use it. “What do you want?”

“To give you a little help, of course. Our boy’s been busy. Would a fresh crime scene be of any benefit to you?” he inquired sardonically.

She gritted her teeth, admitting, “Yes.”

He gave her an address an hour or so north of the city, through a supercilious grin no doubt. She grabbed a pen and wrote it down. “What am I looking for?”

“It’ll be hard to miss,” the man chuckled. “Oh, and commander?”

She held in a frustrated sigh. “Yes?”

The man paused for a moment, clearly relishing the opportunity to jerk her around some more, then offered, languidly, “Bring a mop.” He hung up before she could reply.

She dropped the phone to the desk, considering the odds of success in tracing the number before dismissing the notion. The more important question was whether to treat the tip she’d just gotten as legitimate. It might well be a particularly tasteless prank, but on the off-chance he was telling the truth…

It was worth the risk, she decided, though she would have to tread carefully, especially if the property really did belong to Bolton. Going in without any backup was foolhardy at best but she couldn’t afford to let anyone taint the evidence and tarnish the investigation as before. Trust was of major concern in a department rife with corruption despite Stark’s efforts at reform. She briefly considered contacting him, but dismissed it--she didn’t actually have anything yet, and he’d seemed preoccupied that morning, as he had been all week. If she found something, she would call him.

Sighing, she looked through the glass walls of her office (to foster cohesiveness, allegedly, but it generally only made her feel like an animal on display at a zoo), and noticed the glow of another computer screen at the other end of the large room. PC Payne sat hunched at his desk, casting a tall shadow on the wall behind him. The boy seemed to hang around her like an overeager puppy, a bit clumsy but hardworking and staunchly loyal, which was saying something for King’s Landing. Dreadful with paperwork though, unfortunately, as his presence here so late attested. Still, she could count on the young man to follow her without question, and was therefore her best option then, sadly. Mind made up, she shut down her computer and packed up her things. She checked the clip in her firearm and the backup she carried at her ankle, re-holstering both, and slipped a few extra rounds into a pocket. After locking up her office, she made her way to Payne’s desk. As she neared, she noticed he had headphones on with music blasting through them. She tried to get his attention. “Payne.” He didn’t respond, still occupied with his computer, though he did start drumming on the desk. She cleared her throat, and tried again, a bit louder. “Payne!” This time the boy turned around so fast he almost fell out of his chair, ripping the headphones from his head. When he saw who was addressing him, he hastened to stand, even throwing up a panicked salute. She sighed, “Payne, there’s no need--”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am!” he stammered, a blush evident even in the dim office.

“It’s fine.” She waved her hand, trying to get him to relax. “I’m going to check out a possible crime scene and I need you as backup.”

Payne’s face lit up like she’d handed him a long-awaited present. “Absolutely ma’am. I’d be honored,” he replied, words almost stumbling over themselves in eagerness.

“You’re off the clock?” she asked. He nodded rapidly. “I can’t guarantee over time approval for this,” she warned.

“That’s quite alright, ma’am, no need to worry,” he assured her.

“If we do this, I’ll need your absolute cooperation, no questions asked,” she stipulated, giving him a measured look.

“No ma’am, I mean, yes ma’am, I--” he stuttered, reddening further.

Brienne had to try mightily to resist an eyeroll, and put him out of his misery by interrupting; “Do you have your service weapon?” He nodded again, picking up his holstered gun from the desk and strapping it to his belt. She eyed it with approval then asked, “Do you have a backup?”

Payne blinked, looking at her uncertainly. “Ma’am?”

“Always carry a backup from now on,” she advised briskly. “We’ll sign one out for you when we get the vests.” The quartermaster on duty wouldn’t like it, but she’d harangued him into doing his job before. “Come on,” she ordered, turning to leave, and he fell in line behind her, almost looking like he might salute her again. Brienne sighed internally, already certain that the car ride there would sorely try her patience.

*****************

Joffrey dropped his head back in his seat, soaring above the depravity going on around him. He didn't know where Ramsay had gotten it, but it was by far the best shit he’d ever had. He'd promised it would be special, and he'd delivered. Joffrey had never felt this wonderful in his life. It was like a billion orgasms rolled into one with no come-down in between. It was perfect. He turned to suggest to Margaery that they find him to offer thanks, and was perturbed not to see her until he remembered she’d said something about feeling ill and going to call her brother. He'd be disappointed if he weren't high as fuck. Hell, he’d just have to enjoy the party for the both of them. He looked around, making eye contact with two women who’d been looking at him all night. They giggled and started sucking face, stealing glances of clear invitation his way while they groped each other. The brunette gave great head, if he was remembering correctly, or maybe it was the blonde...it didn’t matter, he’d have both anyway. He was about to call them over when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned at the affront.

“Your Grace?” A blond man, homo by the looks of him, stood by the couch looking down at him. “A mutual friend wanted me to tell you that he left something for you in your favorite room. A wedding present, of sorts.” He handed over a card that Joffrey recognized as a key for one of the special rooms Baelish kept for very particular tastes. Intrigued, he staggered to his feet, and let the faggot lead him to the room, weaving through the crowd and shrugging off people trying to waylay him. He opened the door with anticipation and stepped inside, ignoring the queer’s bow and exit.

There curled Sansa Stark in the corner, trussed up and chained to the wall, dried tears already tracking down her cheeks. The walls above her were covered by racks holding special toys, all his favorites and some he’d never even seen before. Oh, how he was going to make her hurt. Not an inch of that bitch’s porcelain skin would be left unbruised, unstained, unbloodied; the branding iron would be particularly gratifying, he suspected. To top it off, the table in the corner was covered in every kind of intoxicant imaginable. Baelish was a slimy little cuntlicker, but he certainly knew how to apologise. He closed and locked the door behind himself, taking another hit of the mystery bliss drug--it was almost as good smoked as it had been to shoot--and found himself swaying unexpectedly. _Fuck._ Maybe he needed a breather before he got to work on her. He almost fell into the comfortable chair to his left, shutting his eyes for a second to enjoy the fireworks exploding behind them.

When he reopened them, however, he was startled to find that Sansa had managed to wriggle free from her bonds somehow and was staring at him with a hateful look on her cunt face. No matter; as soon as he could get his hands to stay where he wanted them, he was going to wrap them around her neck and squeeze until every blood vessel in her face popped. She picked up a syringe and approached him with cold, dead eyes. He watched her roll up one of his sleeves and push the needle into one of the fresh marks she found there, emptying the syringe into his arm but missing the vein entirely. Joffrey tried to protest but his mouth refused to listen to his brain-- _Not even doing it right. Stupid bitch._

“You're going to die for what you did to my family,” she hissed down at him. “And it will be the most painful thing you've ever experienced. That part is for me.”

He sneered back at her, or tried to; he couldn’t feel his face anymore. Time seemed to slow to nothing and slip by him at breakneck speed at turns as she stood over him. She took out her phone and started to record him. She could take all the video she wanted; he was going to shove that fucking thing down her throat after he broke it over her face. A shadow moved behind her, making him squint. _Who the fuck?_ The man was a hair shorter than Sansa, but when he pulled her to himself she seemed melt back into him. His mouth marked the junction between her neck and shoulder, when he made eye contact with Joffrey, the man’s name finally came to him. _Littlefinger!_ It looked like he was perched on her shoulder like some kind of bird. Joffrey had just enough processing power left to wonder where Baelish had come from, since the only way in or out of the room was behind the chair he was sitting in. _Maybe he flew in_ , Joffrey giggled, until he realized that one of Littlefinger’s hands had slipped under her shirt and the other had pulled her skirt up enough to slip between her legs and Sansa was _moaning_. He was torn between rage and confusion, his drug-addled mind unable to handle the complexity of the emotions.

Suddenly, the stardust singing in his veins caught fire, engulfing every part of him in unforgiving anguish. His body contorted, tearing itself in every different direction at once, his lungs filled with needles, his brain with scorpion stings. The last thing he saw was Sansa Stark’s triumphant face as pieces of his very soul began to scream.

*******************

The third life Sansa ended was the first she took pleasure from or felt connected to. The blackmailer had been dispatched with little thought and a lot of desperation. Varys had been necessary, both as precaution and retribution for what he’d done to her and Petyr, but she’d felt nothing when the man’s car disappeared in a ball of flame. She hadn’t even set off the bomb itself, technically, merely delivered it where it needed to be and handed off the task of detonating it to a very willing Petyr, thus sharing the blood between them.

Joffrey she slays deliberately, consciously, with her own two hands, Petyr’s fingers at her breast and inside her serving to ground her, rutting his hard cock into her backside in lust and triumph. It should bother her that he was so turned on by the prospect of her taking a life, but it doesn’t, not after everything they’d shared. She will feel guilt about this later, for it is in her nature, but it no longer matters.

Her father was doing his part tonight for honor and justice, she would exact vengeance without him. Her parents would despair to see her, to know what depths she had gone to in the name of revenge. Arya and Jon would understand her drive for retribution if not the means by which she’d chosen to carry it out. No, the only person to truly comprehend what this meant to her was the man uttering obscene praises and declarations of love into her ear as she watched the bane of her existence choke on blood and vomit. She focused on keeping her phone steady, needing the video to be usable as Petyr had ensured that the audio certainly wouldn’t be.

Joffrey’s breaths became wet, gurgling rattles, blood streaming from his eyes and nose, limbs trembling violently, a stench filling the air as he lost control of his bowels, fear and pain robbing him of any dignity he might have left. Elation grew within her, twisting with the cresting pleasure of Petyr’s ministrations until they were indistinguishable. She tried to hold her release at bay, not wanting to miss the pinnacle of her revenge. Finally, the air left Joffrey’s lungs for the last time and his eyes grew flat and lifeless. She vaulted over the edge, closing her eyes and collapsing back into him as the waves of bliss rushed through her, barely able to keep a handle on her phone, Petyr’s heavy breaths on her neck. He should’ve known better, but she heard him start to unbuckle his belt, as if he were so far gone that he actually intended to fuck her over the dead body of her tormentor. It was the height of folly; if she didn’t stop him now they were going to render all the efforts they’d undertaken to remove any trace of their presence in the room useless.  She spun around quickly, grabbing his hand to stop him from going further. She gasped, “Petyr, don’t--”

He flinched as if she'd struck him, looking at her with fractured, almost savage eyes, like this third rejection had broken something vital in him. “Not here,” she quickly added, trying to explain that she wasn’t refusing him outright, just ensuring that they completed their tasks without implicating themselves. She placed her hands on his cheeks, feeling the roughness of his beard, and dragged his lips to hers. She held the kiss until she felt him relax, then pulled away. “We have to finish this,” she murmured.

He inhaled deeply, nodding and letting her go with tangible reluctance. She walked through the open false wall Petyr had used to enter the room into the corridor behind, cleaning her hands quickly then donning gloves as Petyr did the same. She stared down for a moment at the unconscious form of Myranda in a red wig stretched out on the floor; her gaze hardened, finding she had no sympathy or mercy for her.

Petyr looked at her, and at her nod back, grabbed Myranda by the armpits, and she took hold of the woman’s legs. Together they lifted up the limp body and maneuvered it into one of the couches in the room, letting the girl slump down as if she'd passed out there. “She’s right-handed?” Petyr asked, retrieving a length of rubber band from the woman’s purse.

She nodded, and watched him put the tourniquet around the girl’s left arm, tapping on the veins to raise them. She took the same needle she’d used before, loaded it with an excess dose of the adulterated drug she'd given Joffrey, injected it, then undid the tourniquet, leaving it wrapped loosely around her bicep. She wiped the syringe down and rolled it between Myranda’s fingers to cover it in her prints, then did the same with Joffrey before letting it fall next to the woman. The vial containing more of the tainted product with both her and Ramsay’s fingerprints had already been planted in Myranda’s bag, neatly closing the loop that would pin the deaths of the monarch and his friend’s lover on a bad batch accidentally or deliberately passed along by said bastard. She watched Myranda go through the same death throes as Joffrey, feeling a lesser but still significant level of satisfaction. Petyr observed her with gleaming eyes while cleaning the shackles and corner where she'd been sitting with alcohol that would soon evaporate.

They checked over the room once more for anything they might've missed, then stepped out. Sansa took a final look at the tableaux they'd created before Petyr locked the wall in place with quick-setting cement, self-sealing paint on the interior covering any gaps at the corners. They emptied the small corridor behind of any evidence before sealing it off from the main hallway in the same manner. She stared at the rapidly setting section where the door had been, stripping off her gloves and wiping perspiration from her forehead.

“Sansa?” Petyr’s voice was rough and his expression uncertain as he stared at her.

She stepped toward him, a smile breaking over her face woven from an array of emotions--relief, joy, affection, disbelief, amusement at how surreal it all felt. She twined her arms around his neck to kiss him again. As soon as she’d touched him, he brought his own around her tightly. She gasped when her back hit the wall, and he murmured, “I need you,” in the resulting gap before capturing her mouth with his again. They should've talked, really talked before this--about boundaries, expectations, what a real relationship between them would actually look like--but she wasn't about to stop him now and, truth be told, didn't really want to. She was glad Petyr had ordered the hallway off-limits to his employees, for obvious reasons, granting them some privacy, at least.

He growled, ripping her underwear--soaked through from her earlier release at his hands--into shreds in desperation, working his fingers inside her to stoke the heat of her arousal again. She reached down between them to finish the task he’d started earlier of unbuckling his belt and freeing his erection, hard and hot in her grip. She had only time enough to give the thickened shaft a few strokes, drawing a rumble from deep in his chest, before he batted her hand away impatiently. He hooked his hands around her thighs and lifted her up higher against the wall, then slid inside her aching sex in one forceful motion. She couldn’t hold in her moan, tightening her legs around his waist; it felt so much longer than a few weeks, as if a lifetime had passed since he’d been between her thighs, and having him back was so right it hurt. They both stilled for a moment, overwhelmed, before he started to move, thrusting in and out of her in rapid, harsh motions, mouth roving over every bit of exposed skin he could touch, chanting her name like a prayer in between bites and licks. She buried her face in his neck, panting and clutching at his shoulders for leverage. Energy sparked between them like a live wire where they touched and she lost all sense of anything but him. She felt her peak approach swiftly, and when Petyr came, filling her in several final deep, uneven thrusts with a hissed endearment--” _mine_ ”--she broke around him crying his name, pleasure burning through her. As she caught her breath, she threaded her fingers through his hair, dragging his mouth to hers once more, muffling the groan he let out, seeking the familiar taste of him, and he reciprocated eagerly. When they parted for air, Petyr gazed at her, grey-green eyes shining with something akin to adoration. She wasn’t sure what showed in her own, but whatever it was made him smile, a rare, honest, open thing untouched by darkness or deceit. They might’ve stayed locked together like that indefinitely if not for the sudden commotion down the other end of the hallway.

“Littlefinger!” The deep bellow echoing off the walls made them freeze, and it was quickly followed by the massive form of Sandor Clegane lurching around the corner, shrugging off Petyr’s henchmen trying to slow him down like they were fleas, paying not the least bit attention to the guns trained on him or demands to freeze. He stopped a few yards away from where they leaned still pressed against the wall, glancing between her and Petyr with pain in his sad eyes but no sign of surprise. Petyr’s men likewise skidded to a halt behind him, looking to their employer for guidance. Petyr shielded her with his body, setting her on the ground while she slipped her dress back down, though she could do nothing but ignore his cooling seed trickling between her thighs or ripped-beyond-use panties lying on the floor next to them without further compromising herself. When she was situated, he pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt. He asked if she was alright with a look and she smiled back reassuringly before turning to the intruder in defiance.

The Hound eyed her mournfully. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice, little bird?” She didn’t answer, just returned his stare with an impassive one of her own. He shot a glare at Petyr standing beside her, sneering, “I could’ve done without seeing your pasty white arse, Baelish. That I will not forgive.”

Petyr might have retaliated, but stilled when Sansa put a hand on his arm. The look on Clegane’s face suggested her gesture cut deeper than whatever her lover could have said. She saw him smirk out of the corner of her eye as he stepped closer to her, lightly running his hand down her back before settling it possessively around her waist, shoving the proximity he was afforded as the chosen one in the Hound’s face. Sansa let it be, focusing on the big man staring at them.

“I tried to spare you the worst of it, but I didn’t save you,” the Hound confessed, regret covering the half of his face untouched by burns.

Her expression hardened, her voice steel as she replied, “I saved myself.” She felt indebted to Clegane for the times he protected her, but he was still complicit in the Lannister machinations to destroy her family.

He nodded slowly. “That you did, girl,” he conceded gruffly, respect apparent in his voice and expression. “Joffrey is missing and I haven't been able to get through to the house,” he added. “I assume that's your doing?” he queried with a wry twist to his misshapen lips.

“Stannis and his men took the Lannister compound half an hour ago and shot Tywin when he refused to surrender,” she answered evenly.

He raised an eyebrow but didn't otherwise react. “Cersei?”

“Will not live to see the dawn,” she replied, deliberately cryptic.

He absorbed the information with a nod. “And Joffrey?”

She gave him a cold smile as she declared, “The king is dead.”

He gave her a long, piercing look, then spat, “Long live the fucker.” He turned and strode away without another word, pushing past the dumbfounded guards.

Petyr wrapped himself around her again from behind, trailing kisses from her shoulder up to her ear, where he murmured, “Well played, sweetling.”

Sansa stiffened, very conscious of the crowd gaping at them, but Petyr seemed not at all bothered that a sizeable number of his employees had caught them in a rather compromising position. She turned in his arms to face him. They should probably discuss what had just happened, though it might have to wait for when they had more time and fewer observers. The Hound was a loose end, but one she was prepared to let go if Petyr agreed. He grinned at her, opening his mouth to say something but was interrupted.

“Sir, the cops are on the way.” Ros had pushed through the crowd, accompanied by a blond man, perhaps a few years older than herself, that she'd seen before but hadn't spoken to. The news was welcome, and indeed a crucial part of their plan. Involving Brienne Tarth had been her idea; she trusted the woman to pursue justice even at risk to her own life, and it seems her faith was not misplaced.

Petyr sighed, gave her a brief kiss, then then pressed his forehead against hers. “See you in an hour,” he murmured.

She pulled back to give him a skeptical look. “You think you can get out of being questioned that quickly?”

He smirked. “With my lawyers? It would be even faster if it wasn’t suspicious as hell to have them here already. The car should be waiting. Olyvar will make sure you get there without being seen.”

She shook her head in bemusement at his perpetual arrogance but tempered it with a smile as she stepped away from him. At a beckoning gesture from the blond man--Olyvar, as it turned out, she followed him through a door to a back stairwell, exchanging nods with the statuesque redhead that would provide Petyr’s alibi along the way. Arya was busy establishing her own; she dearly hoped too much hell hadn't been raised in her name.

“Please tell me this means the two of you are a thing again,” said Olyvar suddenly, apropos of nothing, and rather impertinently, in her opinion.

“Pardon?”

He turned to address her with a pained look when they reached a landing. “He's been going mad the past few weeks. Did he not tell you what happened to the Lophand, the man who took the pictures?”

She shook her head. “He just said that it had been taken care of.”

The man snorted before continuing their descent. “That's putting it mildly.”

“What then?” she ventured, dreading the answer based on what she'd seen of his behavior over that same time period.

“He beat the man to death with a chair,” Olyvar tossed casually over his shoulder. The unexpected revelation almost made her miss a step she but managed to catch hold of the railing before she embarrassed herself by tumbling down the flight of stairs. “I know it's none of my business really, but I'd like a heads up in case he's going to be burning the building down next,” he added sardonically. Sansa had a difficult time coming up with a proper response to that.

*****************

“--top intelligence official found dead tonight from a suspected car bomb. Sources are saying the attack may have been in retaliation for the release of the shocking reports we’ve been getting on the widespread corruption scandal involving the Lannister family and government officials--”

Baelish smirked, switching the television feed from the news to his own set of security channels. He checked his neatly styled hair once more in the mirror, then slid a shirt from its hanger and shrugged it on. Their plan was coming together perfectly. Even the sizeable disruption posed by the Hound had been handled beautifully by Sansa. Clegane having feelings for her made his recent increase in aggression towards Petyr understandable. He might've felt pity for the man under other circumstances, but the taste of victory overpowered such sentiments. Petyr had used the intervening time before the arrival of the police to wash off and dispose of any remaining evidence of the murders they’d just committed, though he lamented the unfortunate side effect of having lost Sansa’s scent on him as well. He could barely contain his excitement that she was _his_ once more, the knowledge settling the restlessness that had plagued him, healing the gaping wound that her absence had left in him for the past few weeks. The sight of her vanquishing her foe had been glorious, a privilege to witness. He hadn’t wanted to let her go again so soon but the anxiety was tempered by the knowledge he would see her shortly. He turned to observe the scene playing out on the screen on the other wall, unmuting the feed with a press of a button, and smirked. Olyvar was holding his own against the she-bear towering over him, but it was a battle he was destined to lose, unfortunately. “I’m sorry officer, this is a private establishment. I can’t just let you barge in,” he huffed indignantly.

“This warrant says otherwise,” Tarth retorted, waving the packet of papers at him. “Now either produce Ramsay Bolton or get the hell out of my way,” she blustered, humorless face stony.

Olyvar made a worthy stab at prevarication. “I’m not even sure Lord Bolton is in the building--”

“He’s been posting all over social media for the last three hours. He’s here,” she grunted, shoving the bunch of papers into his chest. “Move or I’ll have you arrested for interfering with police business.”

Olyvar sneered, catching the packet in self-defense, and stepped aside with a sarcastic bow that made him proud. Tarth stomped through the door, followed by the host of cops behind her, making her way into the main floor of the club with all the grace and subtlety of an elephant. Petyr switched the camera view to monitor the unfolding events, and started to button his open shirt. Tarth was barking orders at the veritable army she’d brought that he presumed involved spreading out to search for Bolton, as that’s what they did next.

He stepped over to select a tie from the rack, choosing one of dark red silk that would nicely offset the black fabric of his shirt. By the time he turned back to the television, it seemed Tarth had found her quarry in one of the private rooms. He split the screen to display the goings on inside as well. Bolton was, to his distaste, busy brutalizing one of his better earners. Meanwhile, outside, the armed commander corralled a mutinous Olyvar into unlocking the door then motioned him to the side, the space immediately taken up again by cops with guns drawn. At a hand signal, the group burst through the door. Bolton lept off the bed, dragging the girl with him, somehow managing to grab what looked like a knife from the table behind him in the same motion, pressing it into his hostage’s neck. Baelish frowned; if Ramsay killed her, the payout he’d have to make to the woman’s family to avoid a wrongful death lawsuit would be substantial. Though he had admire the boy’s reflexes, if nothing else. The noise of the club drifted through the open doorway, but the room itself was quiet enough for him to hear Tarth declare, “Ramsay Bolton, you are wanted in the deaths of Roose, Walda, and Rogar Bolton. Put the knife down and step away from her, or we will be forced to shoot you.” Ramsay only laughed, wide-eyed wearing a hyena’s grin, and the ugly, high-pitched noise grated on Baelish’s ears. Tarth tried again in a more restrained tone. “This doesn’t have to end badly, Mr. Bolton. Just let her go,” she coaxed.

“We both know that isn’t true,” the sadistic bastard giggled, tightening his grip in his victim’s hair and pulling her head back further, which provoked a whimper from the terrified girl.

“This is your last warning,” Tarth cautioned.

“I’ll do it,” he promised, smiling madly.

She stared back at him, answering lowly, “I know you will.”

Ramsay’s hand seemed to twitch, and at almost the same moment, Tarth fired, the sound deafening in the small room, overloading the speakers he had planted in it. The piercing scream emitting from the girl in response was only slightly less obnoxious as she was dragged to the ground under the collapsing weight of her captor--a neat, round hole had appeared in the center of Bolton’s forehead, contrasting with the spray of gore now decorating the wall behind him. Tarth rushed over to the slumped form, kicking the knife out of his hand and checking for a pulse. She shouted at one of the men still standing by the door, and he shook himself free of the daze he was trapped in, hurrying to the hysterical woman’s side and pulling her away, gallantly covering her with his jacket. She began issuing more orders to the others to preserve the crime scene.

Littlefinger tucked his shirt into his trousers and fixed his cuffs with silver links, smiling in satisfaction. He’d planted a few men into Stark’s ranks to ensure that Ramsay wouldn’t walk away from the encounter, but having the hero cop gun him down to save a damsel in distress was even better than he’d planned. Before they made much progress, however, another officer appeared in the doorway wearing an apprehensive expression. “Ma’am, you’re gonna want to see this.”

It seemed Joffrey’s body had been found. He checked the time, satisfied--everything should be well set by now. Upon switching views to the other room, he clicked his teeth at the broken door hanging off its hinges. He would have to request compensation for the damage done. Shortly thereafter, the imposing form of Brienne Tarth appeared in the doorway, surveying the contents with a sour look. She turned to a sullen Olyvar behind her, who’d clearly been escorted by the officers on either side of him. “Get your boss down here, now,” she grunted.

He gave her a surly look, claiming, “Mr. Baelish asked not to be disturbed--”

She leaned in close to him, the move likely intended to intimidate but mostly resulted in shoving her tits in his face due to their respective height differences, hissing, “If the little shithead isn’t down here in five minutes, I’m going to start arresting people for prostitution and solicitation.”

Olyvar curled his lip in contempt, the view probably wasted on him entirely, but took his phone out of a pocket and dialed. As expected, Petyr’s phone on the table buzzed with the call. He let it go, leisurely slipping his rings over his fingers and shrugging on his jacket. Finally, after a few moments, he picked up, injecting his voice with cold displeasure. “I told you I wasn’t to be interrupted tonight.”

The man on the other end let out an audible gulp. He gave him due credit for the nuanced performance. “I’m sorry sir, but the police are here. There’s been an incident.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll be down in ten minutes.” He hung up the phone and shut down the cameras, locking the footage away behind several firewalls, then texted Sansa the good news. He wanted to hear her voice, but she might be with her sister by now.

_Ramsay’s dead._

She answered swiftly. _How?_

_Tarth shot him in the head when he resisted arrest._

There was a short pause, then her answer. _Good._

He grinned happily--oh, how he adored her, his bloodthirsty little wolf. He waited a few more minutes, reveling in how fucking good it had felt to be with her, in her, again. The memory of her body wrapped around his, crying out his name, made his fingers twitch and sent blood rushing to his cock. It hadn't been nearly enough, but he suspected it never would be, that he would always need her this much, ever wanting more. He let himself replay the encounter in the elevator ride down to the main floor as well. As the doors were about to open, he set his demeanor in the role of irritated proprietor whose night had been imposed upon most rudely but was deigning to make a show of good faith for legal purposes. Tarth was waiting for him as he stepped out, the young man who’d taken care of his employee standing beside her--squire to the knight in a bullet proof vest, it seemed.

“Lord Baelish.” Her greeting was sour but he was pleased she chose to use his title and not nickname, as most law enforcement officials he dealt with did.

“Commander Tarth, what can I do for you this evening?” he drawled smoothly. She gave him a sharp, suspicious look, but that was nothing new. Tarth had tried to bust him numerous times for drug and prostitution-related offenses, even stretching as far as racketeering allegations, but, sadly for her, nothing had stuck. Additionally, he was sure she wouldn’t recognize his voice from the tip-off call; he’d used the modulator before to similar purpose with success.

She crossed her arms, staring at him with distaste, which the boy mimicked, to his amusement. “This club is now an active crime scene. No one enters or leaves without speaking to me first.” They’d already shut down most of the party, from what he could tell--gunfire tended to have that effect. The room seemed emptier without the blasting music, the sobered revelers in huddles leaving more open space than one would expect.

He frowned. “That’s very distressing news. You can be sure we’ll cooperate fully. What happened?”

She cleared her throat, an obvious tell of discomfort. “That’s still under investigation. I’ll need a list of your employees and everyone patronizing your...establishment tonight.”

“I’ll have my people give you the information on my staff, but all of the guests are here for a private party for Lord Baratheon. You’re better off talking with him,” he said apologetically.

Her disdain for him reached new heights, her glare hardening as she huffed. “That’ll be difficult seeing as he’s lying dead on your floor.”

Petyr started, letting surprise come over his face. “Are you sure?”

“Very,” she growled. Her rookie shadow made a comical sound of disapproval that had Littlefinger suppressing laughter.

He shook his head, delivering the precise combination of patently manufactured distress and slightly more genuine astonishment for maximum credibility. “I can’t tell you how shocked and saddened I am by the news. It’s unbelievable.”

She dug further. “What is your relationship with Joffrey Baratheon?”

“His family have been my best clients for years,” he said vaguely, leaving it up to the woman to speculate on the precise nature of their business arrangements, which she was wont to do anyway.

“When was the last time you saw him?” she asked, tone heavy with accusation.

“Earlier this evening. I made sure he got settled in, then went upstairs to my flat. I’ve been there all night until I got the call to come down,” he said, hands open in an appeasing gesture.

“Can anyone corroborate this?” she questioned, dubious.

He gave her a slimy leer. “My assistant, Ros, was with me the entire time.”

The look of disgust on her face deepened. “She’ll have to come in for a statement then. Do you know Ramsay Bolton?”

“Not well,” he demurred, “only as an acquaintance through Lord Baratheon. Why?”

She studied him for a moment, weighing his claims and likely finding them unsatisfactory. “We’ll need all of your security footage since this afternoon,” she demanded, biting off each word.

 _Best of luck with that,_ he thought in dark humor. “If you come to my office, I can show you what I have, but I’m afraid only the exterior cameras were on.” He kept his demeanor obliging as he pressed the button behind him to reopen the elevator door.

“How convenient for you,” she muttered, giving him a look that could’ve curdled milk. The scowl of the constable next to her was sadly less impressive, perhaps achieving sufficient sourness to push a sell-by date up a day or two. He’d have to toughen up if he expected to survive in this city.

“Lord Baratheon values-- valued--his privacy,” he explained smoothly, welcoming his guests aboard the elevator with a smirk. The woman stampeded past him, clearly not believing a single word out of his mouth, but he expected as much. They might even manage to shut him down for a few days or weeks, but he'd planned for that contingency and had alternative venues already up and running. The fledgling trailing behind her deliberately thumped Petyr in the chest with his shoulder when he stepped by, but he took the ham-handed slight in stride, shuffling in alongside the two awkward arms of the law and swiping his key card with an unwavering smile. As the doors closed, he snuck a glance at his watch; Olyvar would have called his legal team by now. By his calculation, he anticipated having to dance out of reach of the clumsy swipes of her paws for another half hour or so before he’d be free for the evening. He had better company to keep, after all.

***************

Cersei glared around the small interrogation room in which she was imprisoned in disgust. It was slightly larger than the cell she’d been put in earlier, both housed in a shitty little station; chosen for anonymity, Stark had helpfully informed her during the arrest that signed his own death warrant. The two mute goons who had dragged her in here were still standing behind her against the wall, as if she was supposed to be intimidated by such dramatics. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence, choosing to inspect her nails instead, cleaning the grit left underneath them from the unsanitary conditions around her--the car she’d been manhandled into had been utterly filthy. She looked over to the one-way mirror, admiring her reflection. _People were going to die for this,_ she reflected idly. _Many of them._

Finally, the door opened. The man entering the room, however, was neither Stark nor her lawyer. “Baelish. What the fuck are you doing here? Where’s Pycelle?” she inquired curtly, tapping her nails on the tabletop.

The odious little rat smirked as he took the seat opposite her, setting down the stupid device he always carried with him. “He’s been detained, unfortunately, and sends his regrets, Your Grace.”

Cersei was neither impressed nor amused. “You can tell that old bastard if he doesn’t drag  his decrepit arse over here right now, I’m going to have him strangled with his own beard.”

Littlefinger shook his head in mock regret, his concerned tone belied by the flash of his too-white teeth. “I’m afraid he won’t be going anywhere for a very long time, if ever. Child molestation isn’t looked upon very kindly in prison.” He sat back, steepling his fingers portentously.

She'd suspected the feeble idiot’s disgusting predilections would prove a liability some day. It was highly inconvenient for that time to be now. “Well, what are you still doing here? Get the fuck out there and find me another lawyer!” she snapped, half a second away from clawing deep gouge marks in the man’s smug face.

If anything, the prick somehow managed to appear even more pleased with himself. “I can’t do that, I fear. We have unfinished business to attend to, don’t we, my love?”

Cersei looked at him like he'd gone completely mad until she saw a shadow appear in the doorway. The face of the newcomer stepping into the light sent a reflexive bolt of hatred through her. She hissed--“ _You!”_

“Hello, Cersei.” Sansa Stark strutted over in her heels and dark tailored suit  to where Baelish sat with wholly unearned confidence--as if she meant anything at all--and leaned against his shoulder. The little bastard put an arm around her son’s former fiancé that managed to be proprietary and submissive all at once, nuzzling at her hip as she scratched her fingernails along his scalp before settling her hand on his other shoulder. Men were weak and simple when it came to women, even clever ones like Baelish; it seemed she'd imparted her wisdom to that ungrateful slut a little too well. Something about the way he gazed up at her in near-worship, however, made her think that he’d not only surrendered willingly to the vise gripping his balls, but had intentionally sought it out. _Disgusting._

“This is all your doing then, is it?” she sneered. “You were never good enough for my son, you Northern trash.”

The hussy had the temerity to chuckle. “I’m not surprised. I don’t share nearly enough chromosomes with him to meet your high standards.”

Cersei hissed, “Enjoy it, you little bitch, because when I get out of here, I’m going to see you _burn_ \--”

Sansa interrupted, her tone noxiously mild. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’re never leaving here, not alive at least.”

She scoffed. “What the fuck are you talking about? Do you really think those laughable charges your father is trying to pin on me won't be dismissed immediately once I get a competent lawyer here? No prosecutor in their right mind is going to take that case.”

“It won’t matter.” Sansa shrugged. “Tomorrow morning they're going to find you dead in your cell by your own hand, overwhelmed by grief and guilt.”

Cersei laughed in disbelief at the sheer gall on display. The Stark girl gave her a cold smile, looked down at Baelish, then nodded. She moved her hand to the man’s neck, massaging it. Nauseatingly, the treacherous pervert practically shuddered with pleasure while passing the electronic notepad he always carried across the table to Cersei, his smirk as grating as his loathsome keeper’s. The screen was dark for a few moments, and Cersei was on the verge of issuing a disparaging remark when black abruptly gave way to a figure cast in dim light. It was Joffrey, slumped in a chair, appearing barely conscious. Alarmed but not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing it, she leaned forward casually. Her heart suddenly stopped when her beautiful boy’s face contorted in agony and terror. He started seizing, slipping out of the chair to land heavily on the floor, red foaming from his lips, blood streaking from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes. It felt like an eternity before the pained, uneven breaths and agonal choreiform motions ceased; the footage then froze on his beautiful blue eyes that were now horrifyingly blank. Her boy was dead. It simply couldn’t be real--she refused to believe it.

An unwelcome voice invaded her collapsing world. “I’d like you to know that he died feeling all the effects of the most painful poison we could find.” Cersei snapped her eyes to meet those of the conniving bitch. Sansa’s smile deepened as she continued, “I don’t know what it’s like to lose a child, but I hope it’s at least a fraction of what I’m imagining.”

With a devastated cry, Cersei threw the video screen against the wall as hard as she could. She lunged forward, wanting to scratch the girl’s falsely innocent eyes right out of her head, but the guards behind her caught her and forced her back into the chair. Baelish looked over to the wreckage, then back at her, annoyed. “Well, that was just rude. I’m going to have to use some of your money to buy myself another.”

Sansa laughed softly, gazing down at him with a fond expression that turned her stomach. “You should probably consider investing in that company, at this point.” He chuckled in self-deprecation, his hand playing with the waistband of her skirt crassly.

Cersei snarled at them, furious that they were exchanging some kind of inside joke while her child, the beautiful baby she’d felt an unbreakable bond with since she first laid eyes on him, that she’d nurtured from her own breast--the person she’d cherished the most in the world--grew cold and lifeless. When Joffrey had told her Baelish had confessed to fucking the girl, Cersei had wanted to have him killed as a matter of prudence, but her advice had gone unheeded; Joffrey had been too distracted by the petty vengeance Baelish offered in penance, and her father indulged it. She could feel little satisfaction at having been proven right, however. He would have listened if only Jaime had been there…

“When my father hears of this he will destroy you and everything you ever cared about,” she promised hotly.

Baelish snorted. “Even if he still had all the gold in Casterly Rock, I doubt it would serve him well where he is.”

She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

The Stark girl clarified for him instead. “He was shot to pieces two hours ago while resisting arrest. I’m to understand Stannis gave him the opportunity to surrender, but your father chose to go out fighting. Admirable, in some ways.”

She glanced from one to the other with increasing rage, and they stared back at her with matching expressions of galling insolence. They might well be lying, however--they’d shown her no proof, and she had trouble believing Baratheon had managed to march his way the length of Westeros undetected and ambush her father. “Jaime will come for me,” she declared with conviction. Even if she lost everything else, she would always have her twin, her other half.

Sansa shrugged casually. “He’s welcome to take your corpse, if he gets this far.”

Littlefinger’s hand had slipped lower and snuck its way around to clutch the girl’s upper thigh, a finger twitch away from groping her shamelessly. “You did all this just to wet your cock in that deceitful little whore?” she queried with revulsion.

He tilted his head to the side, smirking. “No, not only that, but it would have been enough.” Her hand came down to cover his, whether to restrain or encourage, Cersei didn’t care to know. He raised an eyebrow, drawling obnoxiously, “Now, we’ve still got much to do, so if you have any last words?”

She ignored him, turning to the smug cunt on his shoulder instead, and smiled coldly. “I wish Jaime had finished the job on your little brother.”

Sansa’s expression flickered briefly, then twisted in malice. “Give all my love to Joffrey when you see him in hell.”

She lunged forward toward the heinous bitch again fruitlessly, the hands gripping her arms with bruising force dragging her away from her target. Rough fabric wrapped itself around her neck from behind and began to tighten. Just before darkness took her, she saw Baelish pull the girl down into his lap, but her eyes never strayed from Cersei’s, burning with wrathful triumph.

*******************

Petyr’s arms were locked around her as if he feared she would disappear at any moment, his head nestled between her breasts. One of her hands buried itself in his hair, the other traced the ink on his back, fresh against healing skin. The wolf stretched between his shoulderblades as he breathed, flanked by the Titan of Braavos on one shoulder and the black king castled in its corner of the chessboard over the other; the only colors it bore were the blue of the eyes she recognized as her own and the red of the beating heart it devoured, blood dripping from its teeth. She’d seen it when he had been going down on her the second time--after they’d managed to actually disrobe--but hadn’t remarked on it, and he didn’t either. There was no need really, its meaning was clear enough. It was violent and beautiful and terrible and wonderful all at once, just like the man wrapped around her. He’d taken her several more times since they’d gotten home, having just been able to control themselves for the length of the short car ride back from the Fleabottom station where Cersei’s corpse hung by the neck from the bars of her cell. She could hardly criticize his lustful desperation, however, as it was matched by her own.

Her father would still be preoccupied rounding up the Lannister plants in the government, with Stannis’s assistance, and likely having to deal with rebellion amongst his own officers as well. By morning, the prime minister will have resigned or be led away in handcuffs on criminal charges. An emergency session of parliament would put Renly in charge, a role he would step into eagerly in order to mount a crusade to cleanse the system of the widespread corruption plaguing it, to all appearances at least. She knew Petyr had every intention of slipping his own tentacles into the resulting cracks, reshaping the weakened, malleable structure to suit his--now their, she supposed--needs. He was also prepared to take advantage of the looming power struggle between the Baratheon brothers; the new public leader of the country would be much less willing to cede agency to the clandestine king, no matter how just his claim. The fallout from the ordeal would be wide ranging and enduring, and have implications for her family in particular, as well. All that lay in the future, however. Now, for the next few hours at least, they were finally, mercifully alone. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, enjoying the familiar weight of Petyr pressing her down into the bed.

“I love you.” The words slipped out with little thought, but she found that she meant them.

He tensed over her as every muscle in his body contracted. He raised his head up slowly until his eyes burned into hers. “Say it again.” His voice was low, raw, and needy.

“I love you,” she repeated. He crawled up her body until he loomed over her, forearms bracketing her head, gaze locked with hers, intense and unrelenting.

“Again,” he demanded brokenly. It was if he’d waited so long to hear the words he had trouble believing his own ears.

“I love you, Petyr,” she affirmed, cradling his head in her hands, trying to smooth away the agitated furrows of his brow. She started to say it once more unprompted, but he attacked her lips with a sob, swallowing the declaration, almost collapsing on top of her, his hands grasping and pulling with a force bordering on painful. His movements were uncharacteristically clumsy and unsure as he tried to enter her, and she had to guide him home. They moved against--with--each other in a slow, deliberate rhythm, rejoicing in the connection that made them one, inseparable.

*******************

 _And when you see me for all that I am_  
_I couldn't make mistakes to make a difference any more_  
_I'd throw myself down on my knees, at your hands_  
_And beg you for forgiveness for my fuck ups and my faults_  
_And maybe you'd relent and return my hope for our forever_  
_Lift up your precious hands, and then bring yours and mine together_  
_So just give me one fine day of plain sailing weather_  
_Just give me one fine day of plain sailing weather_  
-Frank Turner, _Plain Sailing Weather_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. I hope the journey has been worth it, and that it ended with the impact I was trying for. This started out as a challenge response, oddly enough, but grew into something I hadn't anticipated. I had Joffrey's death scene written right after I finished 'Scars,' and nearly posted it as a oneshot, but I'm really glad I took this path instead. 
> 
> This is by far the longest fic I've managed to complete, and I couldn't have done it without all the encouragement I've gotten along the way. I'd like to thank arianas sunflower, bees_pen, boredlikeaboss, dethronejane, existinghook, gooblegoble, grandduchessanastasia1901, greedisgreen, headinclouds, jennilynn411, jumpdownturnaround, kris13, light_loves_the_dark,lurker301, lurkercharlie, mellowthighedchick, opi, petyrbaelishstark, playwhatgoeson, raine, sammipuptan, sephaya, tommyginger, tuzza, and, last but certainly not least, writerchick for all of the support and kind words, and to everyone who left kudos as well. Thanks again for reading!


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